


A Little Death

by Eunioa



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, Hurt/Comfort, Investigations, Kidnapping, Lance doesn't understand danger, M/M, Mafia AU, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Organized Crime, Polyamory, Protective Keith (Voltron), Protective Shiro (Voltron), Sadist Keith, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Smut, Switching, Threesome - M/M/M, journalist lance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2018-12-15 09:32:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 115,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11803293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eunioa/pseuds/Eunioa
Summary: Keith and Shiro were the current owners of the Voltron Construction Company. Lance was a struggling journalist just trying to make it another day without getting fired. So when he's finally assigned a case that will take his journaling career to a whole new level, he had no idea it would entail meeting two of the most powerful men on the west coast.It's just an interview; nothing more.But it's hard to dismiss the nagging feeling in the back of his head when their vagueness surrounding Matt Holt's disappearance prompts him to dig a little deeper into the events that unfolded that night. Lance knows they're hiding something. And if Iverson wanted a gripping story that would sell, then Lance would gladly give it to him.





	1. Welcome To Your Life

A journalist's job is to investigate, collect, and present well-rounded information in a truthful, unbiased manner for the public to read and retain.

That’s all the work is.

It’s even written in the flimsy job applications they hand out when you ask for one at the receptionist desk. The description is highlighted in these big, bold letters that practically scream at you to read them. Read them for the love of god and make it your Bible because you sir, are basically the Superman of reporting at this point. You, with your morals, flawless attire, and good attitude that would make any citizen willing to spill their guts for your own personal gain. 

So welcome to journalism. You were practically born to do this. 

...Good one.

The job description is merely a front to get people comfortable enough in their position before the real shit hits the fan. Because in reality, honesty wasn't even a word that existed in their time once you stepped through those doors. 

That’s something the newbies learned real quick. And Lance was a fast learner. 

Completely changing his career path mid year had been a rather stupid, but bold, move on his part. Especially when he was only three years out from completing his professional program and readying himself to complete yet _another_  two years in a residency he had zero mental capacity for. But writing had always kept him interested enough in high school, and one encouraging teacher was all he really needed to call up his parents and break the news to them. 

He was swapping out a financially secure career in pharmacy for the lecherous work life of a reporter in one of the lowest ranking cities for journalist job opportunities. 

And it wasn't easy. It took him over thirty tries to finally land an interview with the Seattle Heat. There’s a little play on words in the company name; Seattle wasn’t necessarily sunshine and warm weather year round, but that’s not the point. The point was, Lance managed a reporting gig only months after getting his bachelor's and he fucking _sucked_ at it. 

“It’s garbage,” Iverson informed him with a snap of the file. “It’s absolute shit, McClain. Spray paint on high school trash cans? Really?” 

Lance felt heat rise in his cheeks and coughed in hopes of distracting his boss from the visible embarrassment coloring his face. “The school's been dealing with vandalism for an entire semester, sir. Nothing's been done-”

“Because no one cares,” Iverson stated bluntly. “Nobody cares about teenage shits running wild with hormones and tagging up trash cans with poorly drawn dicks during after school hours. They just don’t. Am I paying you to write trash, McClain?" 

“No, sir.” 

"Am I paying you to write _about_ trash."

"No, sir."

Iverson flicked the file away from him in distaste. As if he were making a very obvious point before asking, “Then why is it on my desk?” 

Lance won’t admit that he’d thought it had been a gripping enough story. Had Iverson read past the first page, he would have seen the part about hate speech in regards to the recent election, something that would have gathered a lot of attention from protest groups, but wouldn’t now because Lance was under fire. And the last thing he needed to do was give his boss more ammo.

So he reached out and carefully pulled the report back into the safety of his arms with a mumbled, “I don’t know, sir.” 

Iverson let out a “ _Tsk_ ,” and killed his cigarette. "Of course you don't," he huffed.

The humidity in the room was largely caused by the heavy man's body heat and it wasn't uncommon for him to change out of his shirt throughout the day. That and the lack of air conditioning in his office had him wiping a sweaty hand down the length of his face as he nodded towards the door. “You can get the hell out of my office, now.” 

Welcome to the daily life of a struggling journalist.  

Being a reporter and having a shitty boss was probably as cliché as it could possibly get. Lance already felt like he was playing Peter Parker with the way Iverson spoke to him during the day; if Peter Parker was some lonely twenty-one year old with no superpowers or girlfriend to go home to. And the only reason he got so much shit off his boss was because he was a good person. 

Yeah. Hard to believe. 

The job description says they want honest, angelic, and non-biased individuals to write their best selling newspapers, magazines, _whatever_. But in reality, they didn’t want someone like _Lance_. Lance was too much of what they were asking for on the outside. 

What they really wanted was people like Allura for the inside. 

“How’d it go?”

Lance tossed the lightweight file down onto his desk and watched it slide against the monitor before collapsing into his chair with a groan. They were only a handful of cubicles away from Iverson’s office, but that didn’t stop Allura from popping her head up over the small barrier and poking at him impatiently. 

“Awful,” he grumbled into his arm. “What did you expect?” 

Hunk’s arrival into the conversation was made known by the god awful creak of his desk chair when he stood up. The Islander had plastered himself along the length of the wall and taken one glance at Allura before offering his own look of sympathy.

It was well known around the office by now that Lance was falling behind in the game. He’d only managed a few articles worthy enough of being printed onto paper and each week, Iverson seemed to lose more and more of his patience with the rookie from Varadero. 

“I thought it was pretty good,” Hunk attempted with a sheepish smile. 

Allura tried to mimic the look but failed; looking as if she were in pain when Lance peeked up at them through the crease in his arms. 

“It’s fine, guys. I knew it was a long shot when I wrote it.” Lance grabbed the article and tossed it into the drawer with the others. If things continued on like this, Iverson was going to get over trying to support his amature writing style and just wash his hands of him. 

“Maybe you should have left out the interview with the janitor?” Allura suggested, holding out her cup of coffee like a peace offering. 

And Lance swiped the cup from out of her hand with a pointed look of horror because they had already been over this. _Multiple_ times. “Audrey was a nice man just trying to keep the school clean, _Allura,_ ” he ranted. “The article would have been shit without his insight.” 

“Right there!” Allura pointed out. Her finger landed right in front of his nose and forced him to cross his eyes or have a headache from the lack of effort. “That is exactly what I’ve been talking about. You’re too hung up on the boring, Lance. Iverson wants gripping. He wants hate speech and vulgar images plastered on school grounds, not badly drawn cocks on trash cans frustrate local janitor.” 

Hunk made a sound of agreement and twitched his mouth in Allura’s direction. “She’s kinda got a point, buddy.” 

“But it wasn’t all over the school,” Lance argued. “The article was about-” 

“Trash cans,” Allura groaned. “We know, sweety. But that’s not what the public wants to read about nowadays. You gotta embellish these stories to get their attention.”

Lance let his chin rest on his forearms and resided himself to sulking towards his calendar for the rest of the day. “I’m not gonna lie in an article, Allura. That’s not what journalists do.”  

“Oh, honey.” 

“Hey, man.” 

Both his friends gave each other helpless looks of resignation as Lance continued to stare off into nothing. Because he knew that what he was saying was what essentially got him here in the first place. Thirty articles in and only four to show for it. There had to be a point where he either changed up his strategy, started looking for the flaws in his method, or became the sell out everyone wanted so that he could start writing stories that didn’t put the _elderly_ to sleep. 

“McClain!” 

Lance shot up and stared at his friends who gave twin expressions of nervousness and no signs of hope. Their body language said social work chatter but their eyes said, _panic_. 

“How bad is it?” He whispered. 

Hunk forced a strained smile and spoke between his teeth. “He’s got pit stains that go on for miles and his fly is down.” 

“So I’m fired?” 

Allura’s eyes widened briefly and she let out a tight laugh. “Stay strong, sweetheart.”

He was so fucked. 

“I don’t pay you all to stand around all day. Get back to work,” Iverson snapped as Lance pulled himself from his chair and took the walk of shame back into his boss's office.

His coworkes lagged in their typing and watched in suspense when Lance shut the door as quietly as he could manage and turned to watch Iverson timber down into his seat with a grunt. He kicked up a heavy foot, one over the other, and settled back with an impatience that made Lance hesitate on which leg he should cross. 

He decides on his left leg. Regrets it almost immediately. 

“I’m gonna make this quick, McClain,” Iverson announced. “You’ve been here for what? Six months?” 

"F-Five and a half, actually," Lance corrected, a weak finger in the air to make his point. And Iverson just glanced at the gesture and _hmphed_ , as if that had been all he needed to hear. Or see.

It made Lance flinch and immediately fumble in his mind to defend and save not only his job, but what little reputation he’d maintained since he’d joined the team. He could already see where this was going. “I know what you’re going to say, sir. I do. But if you just gave me one more chance-”

Iverson cut him off with a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with an impatient, “McClain,”

“I just need a good one, sir," Lance steamrolled. "All I’ve gotten these past few months are low blow assignments that aren’t allowing me to show my full potential. I know I have it in me, sir. I know it. I just need one good sto-” 

Iverson's fist came down on his desk and rattled both the family photo, and Lance's lungs. “McClain, if you shut your mouth I just might give you one!” He bellowed. 

The buzz of conversation beyond the thin door came to a sudden stop and Lance could see out of the corner of his eye that everyone had taken to staring into the small office space. Iverson seemed to notice too because he shot up and stalked towards the door leaving behind a trail of curses and death threats Lance wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. 

“If I catch _one_ more person not doing their job, I’ll fire your ass so fast you won’t even know what happened!” 

The door slammed shut. Lance jumped in his seat. And the next few minutes were filled with the sounds of his boss angrily shutting the blinds and grumbling beneath his breath. He was all out huffing by the time he made it back and sweatier than ever as he adjusted the choke of his tie and flashed Lance an irritable frown. 

“The work you did on the Jane Doe report last month was good,” Iverson grumbled, although it sounded like the compliment hurt to even say. But Lance felt a flutter of hope deep in his chest as his boss leaned back and looked him up and down silently. “My supervisors were impressed. They think you got a knack for crime articles and wanted to see you do another.” 

“I’d love to,” Lance blurted. 

Iverson drilled him with another glare that prompted him to _zip_ _it_ before rolling his eyes and reaching down to pull out a three ring binder. The big kind Lance remembered getting when he wasn’t sure if the class he’d taken was hard or not so he just said, fuck it. And the tag was stamped along the front with the current date; meaning this was a brand new case. Iverson was giving him a brand new case to report on. 

Lance wasn’t getting fired!

“A young guy working with the Voltron Construction Company was reported missing by the owner a month ago. An investigation was set to start once they spoke to the owner, but nothing came of it.” 

Lance reached out and carefully took the binder from under Iversons thick fingers. “Was it a false 911 call?” He questioned, already flipping through the dividers and opening up to a random page. There was a headshot cropped out of what looked like a family photo and a school picture of a young man with wide circular glasses and tousled brown hair. 

“That’s what they thought but,” Iverson nodded to the picture grimly. “Kid’s still missing. Police went and spoke with the mother to see if they could get any strong suspects but they hit a dead end. I guess the dad was murdered just last year, too.” 

Lance looked down at the smiling face and swallowed the bitter taste of remorse for the family. He needed to keep a level head if he was going to break this story down correctly.

“This one goes deep,” Iverson warned. “See what you can get out of the Holt’s and then look into the Voltron Construction Company. Investigators mentioned the owner as being a person of interest but wouldn’t evaluate in the police report.” 

Lance scribbled the list of notes down on a spare sheet in the binder and circled the Holt’s last name quickly. That would be his starting point in all this. 

“My supervisors want coverage on the whole disappearance, McClain. Whatever good shit you can dig up, they want it.” 

Lance quirked an eyebrow and tipped his pen towards his boss. “You think something's off with the case?” He asked.

And for such an innocent question, Iverson met Lance with a weighted stare that made the Cuban lose his skeptical smirk. “I think you might find something worth writing about, Lance. So don’t fuck this up.” 

Lance swallowed the hint of fear in his throat and took it upon himself to gather his materials before Iverson could curse him out. If he wanted to meet whatever deadline the company had set for him, he needed to get started on a game plan immediately. He’d start by finding out where the Holt’s lived and seeing if he could set up an interview with the mother. If the son was missing, then she’d be desperate to get any sort of media attention she could get her hands on. Once that was done, he’d have to find a way to contact the VCC. But  _that_ , he could already tell, wasn’t going to be an easy job.

Lance would just have to be persuasive. No problem.

Allura and Hunk can’t wait until he’s sitting down before they’re rising up out of their seats with lips bitten raw with worry. Each set of eyes held a panicked question that Lance answered with a flash of the binder and a little victory dance down the aisle.

“No way!” Allura hissed. 

Hunk lunged at the wall and peered over to stare at his project in awe. “You’re not fired? _And_ you got the big one?” 

“I’m not fired,” Lance wheezed. “I’m most definitely, _not_ fired.” 

Allura let out a heartwarming giggle as Hunk tried to hug him from over the cubicle wall; an exhaled, "Oh, thank God." whistling past the big guys lips.

Some of the surrounding cubicles voiced their own relief until Iverson threw the door open with spittle on his chin and a rage in his eyes.

“If you have time to fuck around then you have time to look for another job!”

Lance rushed to appear busy and snickered into his shoulder, feeling all too light for someone who'd just been threatened. But he had finally broken the repetitive chain of failure he’d been held captive in for far too long. This was his chance to get his name out there, and he had only needed _one_. Just one good case that he could blow out of the water and use to finally gain some ground in the industry. This was what Lance needed in order to prove to himself that he could be what he had set out to be. To prove he wasn’t a failure. 

Matt Holt was his big break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I met someone the other day and had an idea for this fic! Let's see how this goes.


	2. When It Rains

The pizza parlor between Stark and Burnside was only a couple blocks away from his one bedroom apartment. It was a small little joint run by father and daughter who didn’t bat an eye when Lance made the place his own personal batcave; but only on the nights he was hit with a report that made his head spin. The last time he’d done this, it had been for the Jane Doe assignment Allura had been too stressed out to handle. That and the crime scene had been a bloody mess that Lance had all but run to in order to get a good visual before they covered the body.

Not really what reporters did, but Iverson had been adamant on getting good photos for the public to _ooh_ and _ahh_ about. 

“Looks scary.” 

Lance wiped a hand down his face and looked up at Plaxum with a half-assed glare. “Tell me about it."

Only five hours in and Lance had barely made a dent in the pile of paperwork scattered before him. At this point, he was really just trying his best to get a handle on all the information so he knew what questions to ask.

To start. Matt Holt had just entered his second year in college when he was reported missing. Voltron Construction had taken him on as a summer intern before the end of his senior year and the boy had kept close ties to the company owners after he graduated. The police report stated he’d been seen on the premises of a Voltron reconstruction site the night he’d gone missing but any efforts to track his phone had come up empty. 

No suspects. No body. No leads. 

But the files filled with Voltron’s current staff had been interesting enough. 

“Who's that?” Plaxum nodded to the blurry image he’d been staring at for over an hour. And Iverson hadn't, technically, said anything about his assignment being confidential, so he nudged at the binder until it was facing her and pointed to the grainy camera footage of his second target.

“ _That_ , is Takashi Shirogane. Or so the police say. I’m reporting on the disappearance of one of his employees.” 

Plaxum squinted at the photo. “Is he a person of interest?” 

Lance shrugged, gulped down the rest of the boiling hot beverage until his belly was warm and wiped his mouth. “I’m not a detective, P. I just write the stories. But, yeah. He might be a suspect.” Lance leaned over and flipped to the next page filled with sloppy handwriting and a wrinkled medical record. “He was the one to file a missing person’s report. Dispatch got a call saying a man had been hit by a car and wouldn’t stop screaming for a Matt. This Matt, right here.” 

Plaxum’s eyes widened as Lance showed her the family photo.

“Apparently, Matt was really close with the owners of the company. He interned, made friends, and would usually spend time down there doing what? I don't know yet.” Lance pointed back at the binder with a jab. “Shirogane here, is one of the two owners of that company. The night he called in, police responded to the hit and run and found him a bleeding mess on the side of the street. A ten hour long surgery and one prosthetic later, the case goes cold and nobody hears about it ever again.” 

“You sure sound like a detective, Lance,” Plaxum said nervously. “You think he had something to do with the guys disappearance?” 

Lance flipped to the next page and stared at the listed name of Shirogane’s partner in crime. Keith Kogane. Or as he liked to call, target number three.

“I think they know more than they’re letting on,” Lance murmured. “But I’m just a reporter. I’m pretty sure they’ll turn me away the second I come sniffing.”

Which is exactly why he has to play this smart. For two big shot company owners, they sure did a phenomenal job staying out of the spotlight. And for them to just, up and disappear after the whole incident? It meant they weren’t too keen on being found. 

So Lance wrote a very cautious email to the company in hopes that his request would pique _somebody's_ interest. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have to go trespassing in search of these guys like he'd done in the past. But if he managed an interview with their given consent, then he’d have a better chance at getting information without the risk of termination.

He tells them the interview is for educational purposes. For the kids in middle school looking to become engineers or construction workers. It's a lie. Lance won't act like it's not because it is.

And one send button later turns his assignment into a waiting game.

Except Lance can’t sit around waiting for a response like he wants to. He needed to start his search for one Colleen Holt.

The beginning to his very long assignment. Lance sloshed his cup of orange juice a bit and knelt down to pick at the papers he had scattered along his living room floor. There was a black and white copy of her driver's license, courtesy of Iverson, but the address stamped near the top of the card was dated six years back. The chances of her moving after the murder of her husband were high, meaning Lance would have to put a lot of effort into tracking her down.

And that sucked because Colleen didn’t have the information Lance necessarily _wanted_ , but it was information that he _needed_ for the foundation of his story. He'd just have to hope she'd stayed put.

His phone doesn’t ping that night. 

 _Dammit_. 

 

***

 

The Holt’s house was a ranch style floorplan on a corner lot set deep into a nice neighborhood. It’s the kind of appearance that made him wonder why nobody was talking about the boy’s absence when he was living such an upscale life. 

Note that, Lance. That's a good question. Totally interview material.

And it’s so good, in fact, that he has to continue praising himself as he knocked his fist against the door.

He makes sure to keep his bag situated off to the side so he doesn’t come off as a sales person, and when the door opened, he was greeted with the tired smile of a women who knew more than her fair share of pain.

“Mrs. Holt?”

Colleen looked him up and down quietly before opening the door up just a bit more. Enough for him to see the beginning of a family room and a fish tank. “Can I help you?” 

Lance unclipped his bag and pulled out his business card with a gentle smile he hoped she appreciated. It probably wasn’t often that she got visitors like him and he didn’t want to freak her out. “My name’s Lance McClain, ma’am. I work at the Seattle Heat in the Garrison section of the publication office.” 

Colleen took his card carefully and flashed him a confused frown.

“I’m working on an assignment that involves the abduction of your son, Matt. I was wondering if you’d be willing to speak with me?” 

Lance chooses his words carefully; and by carefully he means repeating the same simple phrase any good journalist used when dealing with intel.

It’s a safety net, really. A gentle coax that set the mood for the rest of the interview.

But between one look and the next, Lance realized with a heavy heart, that Colleen is a bit... _unhinged._ He can see it in the way her hands tighten on the doorframe. In the way the browns of her eyes glaze over and a vacancy twists her features. It’s the same look he got from a lot of rape victims.

People who experienced traumatic events. 

Colleen pinched at her wrist with a short inhale and tipped her head to the side with a tight smile. “Matt wasn’t abducted,” she said carefully. “He just hasn’t come home.” 

And, shit.

A girl came pounding down the stairs then, as if she’d known her presence would be needed, and Lance worries that he's about to have two people up in his face. Colleen stares at him as if he were crazy and shakes her head with tears in her eyes as two small hands try to pull her from the door. 

Lance hadn’t been careful enough. Of course, he figured the mother knew considering the police report clearly said kidnapping, but it was always hit or miss with these things. 

“Mom,” the girl called out, hands coming around to pull the mother inside. “Mom, calm down.” 

“He didn’t get _abducted,”_  Colleen spat harshly. “Tell him, Katie. Matt just left. He left and can’t get home, you _know_ that.” 

“I know, mom,” the girl, Katie, Matt’s younger sister, says with a look Lance’s way that tells him it’s not his fault. 

It’d probably be best to leave anyway, but he’s stopped by a patient finger that clearly says for him to _wait_ as Katie manages to wrangle her hysterical parent into the hallway and kick the door shut.

Colleen’s pitiful sobs were locked behind the thin wood and Lance wondered, briefly, if it would be disrespectful to try and come back again. She hadn't given him anything to even attempt a short excerpt in his article and unless he managed an interview with the owners of VCC, he’d have nothing to turn in.

He’d barely even scratched the surface and he’d already made someone have a mental breakdown. 

“I'm sorry about that."

Lance jolted out of his dip into misery and turned to find Matt’s younger sister watching him. She quietly shut the front door and jammed her hands into the front of her hoodie with a half-hearted shrug. 

“Losing dad was hard enough. Matt sort of pushed her over the edge.” 

“It's my fault,” Lance objected quickly. "I should be the one apologizing."

Katie kicked at the ground and shrugged again. 

“She's like that with everyone. Usually happens anytime I’m not there to answer the door first.” 

Lance nodded his understanding and observed the dying grass that lined the walkway. The grief was evident in the feel of the house. Like a graveyard of painful memories. 

“Matt was a good person,” Pidge said suddenly. “The kind of person that didn’t rub people the wrong way. Whoever took him? It wasn’t because he did something wrong.” 

Lance stared at her for a short moment before flipping his notebook open and raising a brow for permission. Statements made by a minor would be anonymous and the stuff Katie was saying could get him the statements he was desperate for.

If she were willing, of course.

She is.

“Alright, look. That VCC internship was great and all, but Matt made friends with the wrong sort of people. Or maybe they were the right sort of people because all the sudden, my brother was getting scholarships to colleges and receiving expensive shit he didn’t even _need_.”

“From the owners.”

Katie nodded in confirmation. “My brother wasn’t like that. He wasn’t someone to get caught up in a bad crowd he just—he was just a magnet for it. Which is why  _I_ think, that whoever had problems with Kogane and Shirogane, made problems with Matt too. Why else would that bastard be found lying in a puddle of his own piss screaming his name?” 

“Point,” Lance murmured. “So you think the VCC is involved?” 

Katie made a sound deep in her throat that sounded close to a growl. “Involved or not, those bastards know _something,”_  she spat. “Shirogane went off the radar and Kogane started spewing shit about some private investigation that didn't even include us. The cops basically packed everything up and went home, and the same thing happened with the investigators. _Nobody_ is looking for him. Believe me, I've asked.”

"They turned you away?" 

Katie threw her hand around in exhasperation, feeling just as stressed as Lance was. "Fucking ignored me, that's what they did. I so much as mention Matt and they give me the same asshole detective that just takes my report and throws it away. I've watched him do it."

Lance snapped his notepad shut and looked at the distressed girl before him. It was obvious she was hurting. He couldn't imagine what it was like being told your brother was missing and having the case go M.I.A. 

But what Katie was telling him opened the door for a possible scandal. If the VCC was involved in Matt’s disappearance, exposing their involvement in the covering of _said_ disappearance would be a shit fest. The perfect story Iverson had been looking for. 

If the owners didn’t want to speak with him before, they were gonna want to get things cleared up now.

“This is so fucked up,” Lance sighed. 

Katie let out a snort and gave him a look too old for her young age.“I don’t know what they’ve told you, but. Whatever my brother got himself into, it’s bad. Bad enough that this fucking city is trying to cover it up. But I know that he’s alive." Katie looked back at the window and started towards the door. Lance had gotten more than enough from the sister and was grateful she was willing to help.

“Call me Pidge, by the way,” she said. “And if you find anything?” 

“You’ll be the first to know,” Lance reassured. 

Pidge looked satisfied with that and left just as Lance’s phone let out a dull ping inside his back pocket. The clouds overhead had taken on the darkness of an impending storm, and Lance shrugged his jacket on while riffling for his phone and scrolling through his notifications. 

Missed call from Allura. Three texts from Hunk. Missed facetime from his mom.

One unread email.

Lance froze. He let his finger hover over the small bar in hesitation before finally running his thumb along his inbox and looking over the message.

 **Shirogane, Takashi**  

_Lance,_

_When and where would you like to meet?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just waiting on Shiro and Keith to come in! Most definitely in the next chapter.


	3. It Pours

“You’re joking.” 

Iverson flipped the document over, found it blank, and promptly slammed the sheet flat against the face of his desk. If he continued to take his rage out on the nicely stained oak, Lance wasn't sure his wedding photo would live to see another week. “This isn’t funny, McClain.” 

“I’m not trying to be.” 

Iverson pointed a finger at him and flashed a sinister smile. “Don’t be smart. I thought I told you to stop giving me trash.”

Lance snatched the paper back and looked over the sheet in blatant surprise. Because _this_? This wasn’t anywhere near trash. This was _good_. It was riveting and jaw dropping and the fucking equivalent to an HBO series. 

“It’s not trash, sir,” Lance defended, albeit a bit pissed he was having to. “You realize this has potential for a scandal opportunity, right?”

“ _Has_ potential. _Has_. You’ve given me conspiracy theories from a twelve year old girl.” 

“She’s seventeen,” Lance corrected. “And she sure as hell had some pretty good leads. Better than the shit your supervisors gave me. At least admit that.” 

Iverson tossed his glasses along the desk and dabbed at a line of sweat curving down his jaw with the end of his shirt. The flash of belly is enough to have Lance averting his gaze and it wasn't until Iverson grunted that he turned back with a pointed glare.

“Alright, McClain. You have something. It’s weak, but it’s something. What else?” 

Lance huffed out a satisfied sigh and leaned an elbow against his armrest with his lower lip jutted out. “I got an interview with Takashi Shirogane in a few hours.” 

“The owner?” 

“One of them,” Lance muttered. “I lied about my intentions though.” 

Iverson waved a hand and found interest in the newsletter on his laptop. Allura had turned in some insane article on the human sex trafficking that exploded downtown and she’d somehow managed a five hour long interview with one of the victims. Lance had made it to page two of that article and nearly cried. 

“It landed you an interview didn’t it?” 

True.

“Now it’s just a matter of getting the right information.” 

Also true. 

Lance drummed his fingers along the edge of the wooden desk and glanced up at Iverson with a fleeting spark of hope. “What do you say about extending my due date?”

“Absolutely not,” Iverson shot back. 

And Lance melted along the sturdy wood with a dramatic groan as he bat his eyes up at his boss in desperation. "But I need more time, sir,” he whined. “Two weeks is _nothing_ compared to the work you’ve given me. As it stands, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna have to roll with this lie until I can come up with something better.” 

“Not my problem.” 

“Sir-” 

“McClain,” Iverson groaned.

Lance slapped his hands against the desk and didn’t stop until he saw the way his boss crumbled under his nagging. Iverson flipped him a rather violent middle finger before stabbing at the office phone and shooting him a glare. 

“You have one month, McClain. I want a story, on my desk, the second you clock in. Got it?”

And _that_ is how it’s done.

Lance jumped up and flashed his boss a shitty excuse of a salute before pulling his bag up on his shoulder and taking up a light jog out of the office.

He’s on a tight schedule after all.

Because after a few hours of playing phone tag with Mr. Shirogane, they were finally able to agree on a time and place for them to meet up and talk. It’d been a stressful two hours of suggested coffee houses and weak excuses to pick somewhere else because both of them had their weird ticks.

And the business owner had gone through some pretty intense measures to ensure that the location in which they were meeting was secluded enough for them to remain unbothered. Lance’s only request was that the place would be in a safe part of town and not some gully bar surrounded by drug addicts and murderers. In return, his phone had pinged with an underlined address and Lance heard nothing more for the rest of the evening.

“Mr. Shirogane?” 

His contact had his phone pinched between two metal fingers that went still along the screen at Lance's arrival. And Lance tried his best to school his facial expression into something warm before he was met with a subtle smile and stormy gray eyes. 

“Mr. McClain.” 

The table rattled and Lance was forced to step back to make way for the hulking body rising up from the dinning chair with ease. He didn't hesitate to hold out his hand in greeting because he's not at all bothered by the cool prosthetic that closes gently around his fingers, and he forces his eyes to hold steady with Mr. Shirogane’s so he knows just how comfortable he is with all the blatant quirks. Quirks being the visible scarring along the bridge of his nose and the sexy, er, _sturdy_ metal of his arm. 

Lance is professional. Stay professional. 

“You can call me Lance,” he says immediately. Because getting on a first name basis as soon as possible made the conversation more personal. It made you _likable_. And Mr. Shirogane mouthed his name silently as if to test the weight of it on his tongue before smiling.

“Lance, then,” he confirmed, his fingers offering a friendly squeeze. “Shiro’s fine.” 

Which isn’t fair in the least. Lance can’t help the drag of his eyes as they roamed down the length of Shiro’s body and had the cheeky response, _you sure are_ , playing at his thoughts. But it _is_ fair that Lance stupidly mutters this aloud and Shiro hears him with a twinkle in his eye.

Shiro chuckles. “I ordered if that’s okay?” He held out a hand and waited patiently for Lance, who was still recovering from his earlier embarrassment, to seat himself before skillfully piling his own body back into the too small dinning chair with a tug of his tie. “You take it black?”

“Only sociopaths take it black,” Lance snickered; caught himself, and looked at Shiro with a guilty half-smile. “I-I read that somewhere. Please forget I said that,” he rambled.  “And to answer your question, no. I take it with sugar. Lot’s of sugar.” 

“Cream?” 

“Heavy,” Lance fired back. 

Shiro hummed into his mug and watched Lance flitter about as he tried to finish his own creation of too much sugar and way too much cream. He's in serious danger of spilling and is force to sip at the rim lest it overflow.

“Your email came as surprise,” Shiro said suddenly.

Lance raised an eyebrow and mumbled, “Really?” before pouring another packet of sweetener into his mug. He’d be bouncing off the walls in the next hour at this rate.

Shiro nodded with a gentle tip of his head, tufts of white hair shifting a bit as he set his cup down and crossed a leg. “It’s not often that we get requests like yours. You’re actually the first.” 

“I like to be special,” Lance stated; meaning every word too. “I hope this wasn’t too much of an inconvenience on your part, though. I’m sure your job takes up a lot of time.” 

Shiro rolled a hand, the universal sign of, _that’s not important_ , and glanced at his phone when it buzzed. “It’s not an issue. I had an open time slot before our state inspection and figured it’d be the least I could do.” 

“Well, it’s much appreciated,” Lance smiled. "Do you have any questions about the interview? If you’re willing, of course. And if you are, I just wanted to make sure the email was clear enough.” 

“I have no issues with the interview,” Shiro stated. He fiddled with the button on the wrist of his shirt and caught Lance’s stare with another predatory smile. “Into the life of a construction worker, huh?” 

Lance gulped; forced himself not to wilt under Shiro’s gaze. “More like construction life itself? My supervisors were hoping to get an inside look of a worker's daily life. Jobs, management positions, what the owners are in charge of.” 

“ _Everything,”_ Shiro purred with a sly wink. 

And Lance nodded because, _duh_. He knew that much. 

“You said it’s for educational purposes, correct?”

“You are,” Lance said.

Shiro rolled the ring on his pinky finger and tapped at the table thoughtfully. “What formats of publication do you intend to use?”

Lance glanced off at the clock on the wall before looking back at Shiro with an easy going smile that made the man’s features soften a bit; turning his rather intimidating lines and edges into softer cuts that made blood kiss the tips of Lance’s ears. 

Shiro had asked him a question. Right. 

“Standard,” Lance blurted, then, in a rush, tried to correct himself. “Not standard, excuse me. For low scale projects like this, the most we’ll do is print out the article in the SUMMA engineering magazines schools get for the year.” 

Shiro quirked a brow. “SUMMA?” 

“The gifted kids in middle school,” Lance explained. “The ones in advanced math and science? It’s a new thing, don’t worry, but they go crazy for this this stuff.”

Shiro’s brow furrowed in concentration and he took quiet interest in draining the rest of his coffee. It’s a reprieve Lance is grateful for as he hides a soft gasp into the rim of his mug because this was going a lot smoother than he anticipated. 

Round 2; begin.

“How many copies?” 

“Standard is thirty per school. I think ten schools were mentioned but don’t quote me on that.” 

Shiro pouted down at his empty mug and waved his hand for a refill. “Is that set in stone?” 

Lance shook his head. “My supervisors are open to negotiation. As long as I can make the deadline, they’ll be happy to even hear you're open to speaking with me.” 

“They sound eager,” Shiro noted. 

Did they?

The waiter that came around visibly trembled as he poured, a blush high on the guy’s cheeks as Shiro watched him. It sends a shiver of envy up Lance’s spine because he was losing Shrio's undivided attention. 

And that’s stupid. Stay professional, Lance. Professional. 

“I’m willing to help you with your assignment.” 

Lance blinked himself from the whirlwind of thoughts and almost asked the man to repeat himself because, _really_? He’d bought all that bullshit?

“I’d like to talk it over with my partner if you don’t mind. Having an outsider coming in and overseeing our staff life would be a bit sudden.” 

Lance nodded his head and eagerly took out a notepad so he didn’t miss any of Shiro’s requests. 

“I would also like to see what questions you’ll be answering for your supervisors. As far as the interview, you have my consent to its conduction, although I ask that you allow me time to fit it into my schedule.” 

“Done,” Lance breathed. His coffee had gone cold by now so he had no problems nudging it out of the way in favor of digging through his bag to give Shiro his business card. “I’m assigned to the Garrison sector of the Seattle Heat. I work under an asshole named Iverson. If you have any more questions, feel free to call me or stop by.”

Shiro took his card and slipped it into the breast pocket of his dark dress shirt. He flashed Lance a thoughtful smile before gulping down another quarter of his coffee and cracking his thumb.

“Could I also get you to show me the draft of your article before you submit it?” He inquired, and when Lance cocked his head, Shiro’s tongue darted out to catch a stray drop of liquid at the plump edge of his lip. “Reputational purposes.” 

Lance suppressed a shiver and held out his pinky with a nervous smile. “Of course,” he assured. “Promise?” 

And Shiro hooked their fingers gently with the return of his own smile before the vibrating of his phone drew his attention.

Lance is more than satisfied with the agreements he managed during their meeting. If he were being honest, he definitely didn’t think Shiro would so easily give him permission to basically snoop around his company for a project that didn’t even exist. Not that he knew that, of course, but it’s still mind boggling. 

And asking Iverson for an assignment extension had been the beginning of his plan B. There was no way in hell confronting Shiro about Matt’s disappearance wouldn’t end in a door being slammed shut in his face, so he decided that rolling with his lie would be the best option. At least then, he’d be able to work about the company grounds and ask employees about Matt’s life up until the disappearance. Because  _somebody, somewhere_ had to know _something_ , and until he could figure out a way to bring it up to the owners without being kicked out? This was his safest bet. 

“Lance?” 

Lance turned to look back at where Shiro had let his phone rest limply in his lap, all his attention trained on the Cuban pinched between a man scarfing down a bagel and a booth. 

“Who are the supervisors that gave you this assignment?”

Lance immediately thought back to his meeting with his boss and frowned. Iverson hadn’t given him any specific names, but even if he had, it wasn’t always a good idea to reveal the faces behind the cases. It could lead to messy encounters. So he gave a weak shrug and tried to look as innocent as he could manage with his leg twisted between a chair. 

“We try to keep that stuff confidential. My boss is kinda picky about things like that.”

Shiro nodded, flashed a tight smile and stared off at his phone until Lance couldn’t see his silhouette anymore.

He’d have to come back to the coffee shop. Hunk would totally love it.

 

***

 

**Takashi: 6:45**

    _He left._

**Keith: 6:50**

    _I’ll be out before he notices._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How am I doing so far? I know this story is taking it's time but I'm trying to get as deep into the plot as I can. Haha. I hope to get more action in the chapters to come!


	4. A Knight And His Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background Info: Shiro and Keith are apart of the Italian-American Mafia but with a lot of added tweaks on my part. In the mob world, the Underboss is usually second in command to the head family. Shiro was such a well-known associate that the head of the family appointed him to underboss a few years back. Keith is his Advisor who rose from the Associate category. He' s the mediator of the group, kind of the second in charge, which is ironic as we'll see in this chapter. The majority of the group are soldiers who are the main workers dealing with crimes and violence. Ulaz is merely an associate who tends to injury in the group as well as errand running. There are a lot of heritage requirments that come into play but I kind of ignored that. Haha.

* * *

Shiro was a man of patience.

You didn’t rise to a position of power like he’d done if you couldn’t keep a level head when shit hit the fan. If you couldn't stay calm when things got a little heated. 

And right now? 

Right now things were _ablaze_. 

On one side of the room, Antok had long since kicked his chair out from under him and had two hands splayed along the table so he could get as close to the opposing side as possible; short of jumping across the sturdy marble. At his side, Ulaz stood quietly and nodded only when Antok said something reasonable before taking brief moments to chime in and make his own point; although he made sure to show Keith respect rather than verbally assault the younger man like Antok had and _continued_ to do.  

And the right side was no better. 

Shiro, despite being pissed, was surprised to see Thace supporting Keith’s wild plan of action. At the very least, Shiro figured the man would side with Ulaz given the strength of their relationship, but here they were. Divided by their restless underboss who was about _two_ seconds away from wringing each of their necks and throwing them out on their asses. See how they liked it.

But Shiro was a man of patience. Let’s not forget that.

“Antok," Shiro addressed heavily.

The soldier went rigid as Shiro's voice rang through his core, triggering a chain reaction of straightened spines that had each and every one of them standing at attention. Shiro counted down in his head, ready to ridicule whoever it was that continued to challenge him after ten seconds. 

By the time he hit five, all but one had found their seats in an uneasy silence.

“Keith, sit,” Shiro ordered. Because he could see where the man hadn't quite relaxed into a non-threatening postion, prompting him to wait, patiently, until the advisor threw himself back into his chair and glared at Antok with newfound hatred.

Let's let it be known that discourse within group ties caused issues and increased the chances of shakey loyalty to the organization. He needed to solve whatever childish argument they'd begun before the minor cut in group dynamics became a gaping _wound_.

Patience yeilds focus. Say it again so you won't forget.

"Your blatant show of disrespect is appalling," Shiro stated as calmly as he could manage. "I should discharge all of you for this shit show you created."

“Shiro-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Keith,” he snapped. And when Keith ducked his head, Shiro moved on to Antok without mercy. “And _you_. I don’t recall putting you in charge of _anything_. All you’ve done is turn this matter into a schoolyard fighting match.”

Antok looked at his hands as well and tried to limit eye contact. It’s a show of submission some would find weak but Shiro accepts it nonetheless. Antok was a soldier after all. 

“The boy is of concern to us, sir. He poses a threat to the entire organization.”

Shiro glanced at Thace before looking at each of his underlings quietly. Their unease was visible in their posture. He could see it when they shifted. 

“He does,” Shiro agreed carefully. “Which is why I’ve arranged to meet with him.” 

“You _what_!” Keith shrieked. 

And just like that, another frenzy.

Keith flew into a rage, spitting insults at Antok who had no trouble throwing his pen at the advisor in his own anger. Thace was the epitome of contained frustration as Ulaz gestured wildly from the safety of his corner and flashed his partner a look filled with brewing hurt. Whatever had been said had wounded the man. At the far end, Kolivan was glaring at something Slav was screeching about, and Slav’s voice alone was all it took to have Shiro slamming his fist down hard enough to crack the corner of the table and send the chunk crashing to the floor with an echoing _thud_. 

 _“Have you all lost your damn minds!”_ Shiro snarled. “Questioning my authority. Is that what I'm hearing right now?” 

“You've agreed to meet the boy-”

“And I have every right to do so,” Shiro cut in. “Unless you think you're in any position to challenge that?” 

Antok gulped and sank back into his seat once more, having burned through whatever remaining patience Shiro had left. 

But this was all new to Shiro. He'd never had to figure out how to put his group into place for such outrageous behavior. He expected the trouble to come from Keith. That much was normal. But to have everyone riled up all at once was turning out to be detrimental to the group. 

It made his blood boil.

“Mr. McClain was given contact information only people within our group is privy to. How he obtained it? I don’t know.” 

Keith glared down at the marble top with a soft, “ _Tch,”_ before suggesting, “Maybe he’s an undercover cop. Matt’s disappearance, shit going on with the Galra? It was only a matter of time before someone started digging.” 

“So we kill him,” Kolivan hummed from his end. 

Ulaz's face went red in record time before his nimble fingers flashed out in front of him urgently. “We’re _not_ killing the boy, Kol. He’s done nothing wrong.”

“He’s looking into our organization,” Keith cut in. “If we don’t kill him now, then we’ll suffer the consequences later.” 

Their thin associate sputtered to the point that Thace looked ready to cross the table and calm him, but Ulaz got ahold of himself and looked to Shiro with a pleading gaze. “An action of this magnitude could be devastating, sir. To have a reporter go missing on a case with _our_ company's clear involvement? It’s stupid to even suggest.” 

“We don’t know if what he says is true, Ulaz," Thace chidded. "For all we know, Keith could be right.”  

Antok threw out his hands suddenly and fell into the back of his chair with a huff of exasperation. “So killing a cop is the best plan? Real smart there, guys. Way to draw _more_ attention.” 

“It’s better than having a cop snoop around our company ‘till they find something, fucker!” Keith growled. 

Shiro held out an arm to stop his advisor from starting another argument and steadied them all with a stern look.

He knew what he had agreed to when he responded to Lance's e-mail. The chance that he was a detective sent to investigate the guts of their company was way too high to ignore at this point in time. And sure, the boy’s intentions _could_ be sincere. It’s entirely possible that the reporting company he worked for wanted a small assignment done on what life’s like in the construction business, and with Keith and him being the owners of such a large business, maybe something like this had been inevitable. 

But with Matt so recently abducted, it was hard to tell if the interview was as dangerous an idea as his soldiers were making it out to be. 

“We’re not killing him,” he decided.

The left sides posture went slack with relief, but Shiro can see the way the right line of group members tensed in frustration. It's his job as head of their organization to handle things accordingly. 

“Ulaz is right,” he reasoned. "Killing him could be more trouble for us than if we just play along.” Shiro laid out a hand and stared at his fingers until the words came to him. “I want to meet with him and see if I can figure out who it was that gave him this assignment. Depending on the answers he gives, I will confirm if it’s safer to let him do his measly walk through, or cut off all contact and begin moving our company stocks.” 

“And if it’s an ambush?” Thace inquired gently.

Shiro would always regret not putting Thace in charge when Keith had risen to the next seat. Not because he didn’t love his advisor, but because Keith had trouble keeping calm in times like these. He was too rash when it came to high stake situations and it had been a weakness in the past. They couldn't take another fuck up like that. They needed to play this safe.

“If it's an ambush, you’ll move headquarters immediately.” Shiro looked at Keith then, gray eyes deeply conflicted. “I have McClain's address. I’ll keep him for as long as I can while you do a run through of his apartment. Anything you can find that’ll give me a vision of what we’re looking at? I want it. Understood?” 

“Easy.” 

Shiro figured an hour would be enough time for Keith to be in and out like he’d promised. The younger man was fast. Practically born to handle tasks that needed swift resolution. And if anyone was going to find anything in Lance’s house, it would be Keith.

So as soon as his phone pinged, he was out of his chair and fishing for a twenty to throw down as a tip before following in the footsteps of Lance's own departure.

**Keith: 6:50**

_I’ll be out before he notices._

Shiro turned his phone off and prayed that he could make it to the apartment before Lance did. 

One wrong move and their game would go to hell.

 

***

 

It wasn’t often that Lance made it home before eight o’clock rolled around. He was supposed to swing by work, check-in with Iverson, and pick up some files he’d left behind on accident. But the mere thought of having to deal with his boss had been enough to send him speeding home where a hot shower lay in wait. He’d come up with some bullshit excuse in the morning. And by morning, he meant Monday because tomorrow was his day off and he had no time to spare if he wanted to work on the list of questions Shiro requested this evening. 

And just the thought of said businessman was enough to send a shiver down his spine. Not entirely unpleasant, but not welcoming either.

Lance had noticed the odd feeling layered on his skin after he'd left the cafe and it only seemed to heighten the longer he struggled to pinpoint what it was exactly that was bothering him in the first place.

“Hey, Blue,” Lance murmured absently.

The plump tabby sauntered over with a head butt ready and Lance reciprocated, although a bit distant in his actions as he played it over in his head.

Shiro had been nice. Nicer than Lance had expected given the trauma he would have obviously suffered after the hit and run. Which is why it came as complete surprise when he landed it.

And _that_ , that right there, was probably the root of his frustration. Maybe the way things were turning out was what had him feeling so off kilter. Like he’d spent a vast amount of time gearing up for a fight that turned into nothing more than a cordial conversation leaving him tense and on edge. 

It’s a thought that trailed him as he stripped out of his damp clothes and tossed them in the hamper. He’s not sure when he’ll get to washing them, but it’s a chore he doesn’t have the time to dwell on. Right now, he’s focused on working the knots from his lower back and letting the heat from the shower calm his frayed nerves. 

He‘s in the middle of rinsing his hair when it hits him.

Shiro was _suspicious_.

That's it.

Anyone would’ve been overjoyed to be breezing through the assignment like he’d managed, but Lance was smarter than that. He knew a wary man when he saw one. And Shiro? Shiro wasn’t buying it. _Any_ of it. 

Why else would he have been so concerned about who assigned him the case in the first place?

And it's not that it's a question that’s never been asked before, no. But the way Shiro had inquired about it made him uneasy. Like his answer hadn’t been sufficient enough or not what he’d been looking for. 

Lance realizes now, just how dangerous of a game he's playing. He's already made one wrong move. Another and it'd be game over. 

“You want _what_ now?” 

Lance pinned his phone between shoulder and neck as he toweled off the remaining droplets in his hair. He'd gone to town wiping his face free of the blue night mask and quickly flipped the bathroom light off in search of clothes. “I need you to go through my files and find Shirogane’s medical report. The one with the black tab.” 

Hunk let out a short exhale that signalled his rise from the cubical, which was then followed by the metal clang of a filing cabinet.

Cue the flitter of card-stock and, _bingo_.

“What am I looking for exactly?” Hunk asked with another exhale as he sat back down. 

Lance jammed a sweatshirt on over his head and ditched his pants in favor of pulling on a dark pair of boxers. Only his upper body got cold at night so he padded back into the living room and turned up the heat. 

“Discharge papers,” he huffed. "Page ten, I think.” 

“On it.” 

The next few minutes were filled with Blue's howling as he tried to work a can of cat food open and wait for Hunk’s response. It'd probably be best if he found his own food to inhale and with Hunk taking so long...

"Anytime would be great, buddy,” he teased.

Hunk mocked him mercilessly in return. 

One sniff of an old take-out box deemed it edible, so he quickly threw it in the microwave and pressed start just in time for Hunk to shout, “Eureka!”

“Alright, man," Hunk said cheerfully. "Says here, Shirogane was discharged to the care of one Keith Kogane despite medical examiners advisory for Shirogane to stay and receive counseling. It says he began exhibiting severe signs of PTSD and anxiety due to trauma.” 

“I need a name,” Lance said around a mouthful of orange chicken. “A name, Hunk.”

“Of who?”

Lance rolled his fork in the air impatiently and wailed, “Of the examiner, man! The name of the examiner!” 

"Calm down!” Hunk shrieked back. 

Lance scarfed the rest of his food down and quickly set to work latching the deadbolt on his front door. He went room to room turning off any souce of light and finished his nightly routine by closing his bedroom window.

Closing his window?

“Lance.” 

Had he opened it before work this morning?

“ _Lance!_ ”

“I’m here,” Lance startled, hastily pushing the window shut and saving it for another day. “What’s the name?”

More papers ruffled before the sound cleared up and Hunk drew out, “Shay...Eiden,” he finished. “Dr. Shay Eiden. St. Providence Medical Hospital.”

Lance crawled into the center of his bed and pat at the sheets until Blue jumped up to make herself comfortable. He reached out and scribbled the name down on a sticky note before slapping it to the wall and rolling the pen against his lip. 

Doctor Eiden could, in fact, provide him with a lot of useful information. But only  _if_ he knew the right questions to ask. And now that he knew just how easy he could fuck up this entire assignment, it meant he had to play this a lot more careful than he’d been doing previously. Whatever he’d said during his meet with Takashi hadn’t been enough to sell his story. Those holes he’d fix later, but now? 

Now he needed to focus on outside intel. 

“Alright,” Lance murmured. “Thanks, man. Looks like I’ll be making a stop there tomorrow.”

Hunk made a sound that gave Lance the image of his friend raising a brow and screwing his face up in confusion. “Why do you need to go to the hospital?” He grumbled. “Did you hurt yourself?” 

“It’s for my assignment, Hunk,” Lance said dryly.

Hunk, _ooooohh-ed_ his realization before saying, “Mind if I tag along? I feel like we haven’t hung out in _ages_.” 

And Lance is fine with that. If he was going to be doing work on his day off he might as well make it fun. So he tells Hunk to meet him outside his house at around ten so they can see what they could get out of this Shay chick. 

If she’d been the one to handle Shiro during his fragile state of mind, maybe the man had said something to her about Matt and his whereabouts. It’s a long shot, also _incredibly_ illegal, but at this point, pursuing Shirogane would only make things worse. 

He needed to keep his distance and gain their trust before he blew it entirely.

Lance cut out his lamp light and rolled until he was on his belly and hidden beneath the heavy sheets.

An onslaught of rainfall had hit the city rather fast and was rolling through with quaking thunder and sharp flashes of lightning just outside his drenched window. 

Newcomers say it’s jarring. 

Lance finds comfort in the storm and is out before he can even count the time between each crack of thunder. 

Now, he can’t tell you the last time he’d ever had a nightmare. Maybe he spoke too soon about thunderstorms _not_ being jarring because his only explanation for the restless slumber is the fact that he can hear the fight of the outside winds just beyond his walls.

His mind retaliates.

The added weight to his limbs made it damn near impossible to move. He wasn’t even _tied_ to anything that would restrict his movements but the act of trying to stand, move his arms, turn his head, _anything_ , is too hard to even attempt. So he’s stuck, kneeling on the cold floor with fingers wound tight in the curls of his hair as they tug, and tug, _head all the way back, sweetheart._

Where the fingers come from, he doesn’t know. But they’re there. And it’s hard to ignore the cool brush of metal digits that smooth down his throat and tilt his face up so he’s staring into stormy gray eyes. Stormy like the clouds outside his window, rolling with thunder and sparking with lightning bolts forged in anger. In _betrayal_. 

“You lied,” Shiro coed. His voice sounds off, the fit not quite right because this was a dream and dreams weren't real. Though it feels real. 

As real as the kiss of metal that pressed flush to his temple with a deadly promise. A gun. A gun for his sins. 

“A bullet for your lies,” Shiro said grimly.

Lance whimpered in response and tried to pull away but two hands held strong on his shoulders, forcing him to stare down the barrel of the gun or risk dislocating an arm in an attempt to lean back. He doesn’t want to cry, but he sobs anyway. Loses it in a mess of snot and tears as he begged and pleaded. Apologized for lying like he’d done. He should’ve stuck to his low blow projects. He should’ve followed the rules of a journalist.

He's  _sorry_.

“Open your eyes.” 

Lance shook his head. He hadn't realized he’d squeezed them shut, as if that would be enough to banish the scary thoughts and rid himself of this nightmare Shiro. It isn’t, and the grip on his shoulders jar him once more. 

“Open your eyes, Lance!” Shiro snarled.

Helpless to the command, Lance felt his eyes fly wide with terror and stare into the face of his executioner. Except this time, he doesn’t open to the cold expression of a snarling businessman.

This time, it was to feverish violet eyes that bullied their way through Shiro’s figure and replaced his nightmare with a protective weight settled right along the length of his body. Two hands, pale in flesh, not of metal, loosened their insistent grip on his shoulders and roamed down carefully, one lingering on his waist, the other pressed into the mattress beside his head.

He’s still in the dark room he’d been in before, but the fear of being harmed dissipates with the warm stranger looming over him. His strange knight in shining armor that came just in time. Handsome too, although Lance can only make out blured edges and broad shoulders. 

It’s a feat worthy of thanks and Lance managed this with a slurred, “Thank you,” that knocked awkward and accompanied a rough pat to what Lance thinks is his knights cheek. Could be an eye given the gentle flinch.

Dull nails scratched through his hair for his troubles though; elicite a purr from deep within his throat and prompt him to roll to one side in search of the retreating caress.

But his head lolls at one point, the call of sleep obscuring the view of his savior right as the warmth finally dissapeared and was replaced with the heaviness of his blankets once more. It's not at all satisfying, but Lance will take what little comfort he'd been given. 

And it’s only when his phone goes off the next morning that Lance jerks upright and is met with Hunk’s beaming smile. 

He’s slept past their original meeting time and he’ll probably have to pick up breakfast on the way to the hospital if he wants to feel somewhat functional. So he pushes through the half-asleep haze and jumps out of bed throwing himself at his gaping closet to grab any decent clothes he can find. 

“Where are you?” Hunk whined when he picked up. 

Lance finished tying his shoe and snatched at his work bag before fumbling to lock the door and scream goodbye to Blue. “I overslept,” he complained. “I had this weird dream last night and-”

It had physically _drained_ him.

Lance could still remember the phantoms warmth pressing into him after his nightmare  and he let his fingers linger on the dip of his waist for a moment before Hunk’s nagging pulled him from his curious train of thought.

_Work now. Think later._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little game never hurt anyone, right? In this chapter, I really wanted to see what Lance's sudden appearance has done to Shiro and Keith. There was sure to be an argument as to what sort of action they should take and I couldn't help but write it. At this point, it's really only a matter of time before one of them slips up. But until then, thank you all for the comments and kudos!


	5. New Leads

Lance decided he might as well start off his odd morning with a brief self-taught lesson that would hopefully make him feel less bad about himself.

In doing so, he wanted to make it _crystal clear_ to anyone and _everyone_ that he was _not_ a bad person. He was just like everyone else desperately trying to make ends meet in an economy too harsh for a young man like him. Remember that when he showed sides of himself that weren’t too appealing. Sides that revolved around his tendency to not be a hundred percent honest when he talked to people.

But it wasn’t like _he_ was lying, no. Lying involved the deliberate telling of false information with every intention of being deceitful and untruthful. 

Was Lance being deceitful?

Not at all. Lance was merely telling _half-truths_. That’s the difference. And half-truths weren’t necessarily wrong to tell if you told them in order to protect people. 

People being himself. 

Don’t judge him. 

“This is so bad.” 

Lance spared Hunk a quick look of reassurance as they entered the highly active hospital and converged around the small map of the building layout. They were looking for one Doctor Shay Eiden, a name that Hunk searched for, and found, with a thick finger traced to a small green box labeled 24B. Two floors up and off to the right. Perfect. 

Now all they had to do was make it there without looking suspicious.  

“You do realize- _bleh_ -” Hunk flicked a hand out in disgust when he touched a crumpled up tissue and swiped at the nearest bottle of disinfectant they passed by. Hunk tried again. “You realize this is insane, right? There’s no way she’s going to just, _give_ you his medical records.” 

Lance jammed his finger into the elevator arrow pointing _up_ and stood back so that whoever was coming out had a clear path. “I don’t want his medical record,” he corrected with a smirk. “I want whatever he said back when his brain was a pile of mush.”

The elevator doors opened, two nurses stepped out with twin looks of happiness, and Lance can already tell they just had a successful childbirth. Good for them. No, really. It’s awesome. Their satisfaction is infectious. 

“Don’t you think all this is a bit excessive?” Hunk shouldered his way next to Lance and pressed a hand to the elevator doors so an older man holding a pile of roses could clamber on. He chose his floor before they did, and that was only _slightly_ frustrating because Lance didn’t want to dilly-dally. “I’m not telling you how to do your job or anything,” Hunk continued with a whisper. “I’m just saying, that all _this_ , is technically illegal.” 

“It’s not illegal, Hunk.” 

“It is when you’re impersonating a family memb- _oof_.” 

Lance dug his elbow deep into the meat of Hunks side and laughed nervously when the man flashed him a look of concern. Small spaces made people weird. And judging from the sweat on this man’s brow, Lance is nervous the guy will bail and report them for suspicious behavior. 

He needed to think of something fast.

“Excuse him,” Lance said sheepishly. He held a supportive arm up under Hunk’s own and leaned against him as if trying to support the larger mans weight. “Doc thinks it’s a concussion.”

And _that_ right there, is a lie. A blatant, totally believable, lie that the man accepted with a sympathetic quirk to his lips before hastily finding his way off and out of the elevator. Lance really hated lying, but he hated the idea of losing this case even more.

Not that they were at risk of doing that or anything. But if Hunk continued to blab like he was doing...

“I’m not impersonating anyone, Hunk. I’m gonna go in there, work my magic, and see what kind of information I can get my hands on.” 

“But-”

“ _It's fine,_ ” Lance stressed. “Now go sit down and wait for me. I mean it, Hunk. Just. Sit.” 

The Cuban punctuated each word with a tap of his finger and left Hunk a pouting pile of hulking muscle in a too small hospital chair along the wall. His friend had a bathroom to his left and a vending machine on his right, so Lance didn’t feel too guilty when he knocked on the office door and received a peppy,

“Come in!”

Let the games begin.

“Good-morning,” The pleasant voice chirped from beyond the organized desk. There was a miniature set of Newton Balls clacking gently against one another, as if they’d been recently messed with, and it was only when Lance shut the door behind him that he was met with chocolate brown eyes far warmer than he expected. The kind that just tells you this person is an absolute _doll_.

Dr. Eiden is. 

“I’m sorry.” She looked about her desk in embarrassment before staring at a collage of sticky notes. “I don’t believe I scheduled any appointments for this hour.” 

This was the time to improvise.

It’s a good thing to know when you’re thrown into uncharted grounds. So he started by throwing on his best smile, making sure to mix in his own flash of sheepishness as he met her open expression. He purposefully sets his foot close to the door and gestured to the knob as if she had asked him to leave even though she hadn't.

He's setting boundaries, making it seem like she had control over the situation so she’d feel more comfortable talking with him. It’s a little trick he picked up after shadowing Allura. 

"If now isn’t a good time, I can always just,” 

Dr. Eiden shot up from her chair taking a sharp moment to fix her lab coat before reaching out a hand to stop him. “Nonsense,” she blurted. “You’ve already come all this way. There’s no need to leave."

The offer was there now, but he refused to sit.

Nope. He stayed right where he was, poised as if he wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave or stay like she’d asked, and waited for her to _insist_. 

He nibbles at his lower lip; tries to look disheartened and sags his shoulders. “I was sure the receptionist made an appointment,” he murmured, then, a bit louder, said, “It’s really no trouble, Dr. Eiden. I can come back at a time that’s better for you.” 

“That’s not necessary,” she _insisted_. See what he was doing? “It’s been so busy in the office lately, I’m sure I made a note somewhere and forgot it. Please, sit.” 

Lance is now safe to take up the offer and does so with a grateful smile. The chair catches on the carpet when he tugs at it, but Dr. Eiden is patient enough to wait until he’s situated before offering a gentle look of her own and cocking her head in question.

“So what brings you here, Mr...”

“McClain.” Lance held out a hand that she took without hesitation. “Lance McClain. I’m Takashi Shirogane’s head pharmacist.” 

Recognition sparked in Dr. Eiden’s eyes at the name, and with it, a flicker of wariness.

All Lance really needed at this point to know that she had information that was crucial to his assignment. All the more reason he was going to have to follow through with his story and make it good. Make it believable. 

“I know it’s rather sudden...” Lance riffled through his work bag and pulled out a picture of Shiro taken only a few weeks after his release from the hospital. It’d been for some charity gala the VCC had prior commitment to and the businessman had made his appearance out of respect before disappearing soon after. Iverson must’ve sent in a few of their guys for the event because somehow, he managed to dig up the photo after an hour of searching. That right there, was dedication, might he add. 

Dr. Eiden took the photo and let the edges of her fingers run along the paper gently. Her brown eyes flickered up through the thin curtain of caramel bangs to give him a quick once over, just an up and down along his frame, before she set the picture down and put her work phone on hold.

“You’re his pharmacist?”

Lance nodded and opened his wallet. He’d meant what he said about not impersonating a family member. However, he didn’t mention pretending to be a representative. It was the little things. Journaling was all about the little things. 

Dr. Eiden looked at his I.D and made a small noise of satisfaction.

Level one; complete.

And yes, Lance had dropped out of medical school just a year prior but his license wasn't dated to expire for another thirteen months. Was he a genius or was he a genius?

“I see,” Dr. Eiden finally hummed. “How is Mr. Shirogane? Last I spoke with him, he’d been adamant on not receiving anymore medical attention, let alone medication.” 

Lance chuckled fondly and folded his wallet back up before setting his bag down. “He _is_ stubborn,” he mused. “I was quite surprised to receive a request from him after reviewing his medical synopsis.”

“Medication was out of the question at the time.” 

“He admitted to it being pride,” Lance said easily. “I’m still making certain accommodations with his dosages.” 

That made Dr. Eiden smile. “Oh,” she squeaked. “So he’s been taking prescription?”

“Venlafaxine,” Lance confirmed. “It’s helped with his anxiety greatly, but I’m afraid it’s not as effective as it could be. That’s why I’m here.”

The clock on the far side of the wall had the long hand rested on the six. He had thirty minutes to get the ball rolling or risk having to end their little session and come back. It’d be best if he were to make this a one stop shop so the chances of her realizing he wasn’t who he said he was reduced greatly. 

“Forgive me for my memory, but the second medical examiner working with Takashi...?”

“Rax,” Dr. Eiden provided helpfully. 

Names got away from people so he can’t be held accountable for that. Once is usually understandable, but if he were to ask again, she’d probably start to doubt him.

Again, this job was filled with quirks that you needed to pay attention to or risk people closing themselves off. From the way he sat to the way he pitched his voice, it was all to ensure he got what he wanted.

Cue the grateful smile. “Thank you, Dr. Eiden.” Lance said. 

Dr. Eiden rolled her eyes in a friendly way and leaned closer. “Please, call me Shay.”

“I’m fine with Lance.”

Level two; completed.

Now hurry it up while he still had Shay’s undivided attention.

“I was told Dr. Rax and yourself were the ones assigned to Takashi during his admittance. I’ve tried to get ahold of Dr. Rax for some time but, as I’m sure you know, he’s a busy man. So I felt it would be best to consult with you about some of the things Takashi said while you were caring for him.”

“What Mr. Shirogane said?” Shay repeated him quietly and pursed her lips, looking confused in a way that made Lance careful. “Is that information you need?”

Yes. But won’t tell her how much.

“It’s information that I can use to help my evaluation of his mental state. I’ve created a drug program based on what I read in his medical history but I feel like I could better help him if I knew more about his incident. Mr. Kogane advised me to do the same.” 

Shay’s frown deepened and he dug his nails into his palms out of reflex. “And Mr. Kogane couldn’t provide you with that information?”

Lance caught the twinge of frustration that flickered in her eyes and clung to that. He'd already gottwn the impression that Kogane wasn’t one to be reasoned with. Nobody went against direct orders from medical professionals if they weren't hardheaded. And if the discharge papers said he went against their advise to keep him, then maybe he was right to assume so. 

So he took a chance. “Mr. Kogane isn’t very open with me. He’s actually the reason I’ve had such a hard time getting Takashi to receive treatment.”

And, _bingo_. 

“I don’t know why I’m surprised.” Shay huffed. “It sounds as though this is important to both you and Mr. Shirogane. Please, ask me anything you’d think would be beneficial.”

“Matt Holt.”

The woman looked a bit taken aback by his outburst and he cursed himself while he reeling it in a bit. Schooled his expression and tried to remain as professional as he could manage without tipping her off.

“That name has come up in a lot of Takashi’s panic attacks. He won’t go into detail but, Matt was taken the night of his injuries, correct?”

Shay tapped a finger against her desk with a grim nod. “The hit and run drew police investigation. It was my top priority to ensure Mr. Shirogane was stable, but investigators were adamant that they needed a witness statement.” 

“So he spoke with them?” Lance asked; thought a bit, then added, “Even though he was exhibiting signs of distress?” Because Lance was a doctor now. He needed to phrase his questions out of concern for his patient. 

Shay gave a look of surprise, as if she were reliving the memory all over again and clenched her fist. “I tried to speak with my supervisors about his well-being, but they allowed it. Mr. Shirogane was already exhibiting signs of PTSD by then as well. Matt Holt was all he ever talked about the first night.”

“Because he was in shock?”

“Drugged,” Shay provided. “But it wasn’t like he was making it all up. At least, that’s what _I_ thought. After he was discharged, another detective came back and told us that a lot of what Mr. Shirogane said was due to trauma. That they had the investigation under control and thanked us for our cooperation.”

Lance felt the hair rise on the back of his neck and suppressed a shiver. He remembered what Pidge had told him about the investigator that kept dismissing her missing person files. Had it been the same guy?

Shay let out a tired sigh and waved her hand in defeat, drawing his focus back again. “Mr. Shirogane was distraught over the disappearance of that boy, Matt. He told a lot of the nurses that the Galra were responsible. That the Galra had tried to kill him and were the ones that took Matt. But none of us had heard of the Galra before. Rax thought it was nonsense.”

“He’s mentioned that as well,” Lance lied. “I’ve looked into the name but nothing ever came up.” 

“Just a waste management company,” Shay agreed with wide eyes. “It never made sense. A lot of us figured the detective was right. Mr. Shirogane _was_ in a state of panic when he came in, so it was possible that he wasn’t all there when he’d spoken with investigators.” 

Lance could hear the thin line of doubt within her words and cocked a head patiently. “But?” He prodded.

Shay bit her lip and gave him a look filled with weighted concern. “But I don’t think he was lying,” she said quietly. Then, as if she caught herself, waved a hand in the air again with a heavy exhale. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling aren’t I?”

“No,” Lance said with a weak smile. “I was concerned that Takashi was suffering from delusions but, this confirms a lot of it. I’d hate to treat him for something he doesn’t have.”

“Is that all then?” 

Lance rose from his chair and stretched his back a little, trying to remain nonchalant in his movements. And Shay stood as well, her face back to it’s friendly softness he’d been welcomed into her office with. She’d unknowingly given him another lead. _Two_ good leads.

The Galra and Pidge’s sketchy investigator. He’d have to speak to the younger Holt again and have her help him meet this guy. If Lance hit him with evidence showing Pidge’s ignored missing person files, then surely he’d be nervous enough to talk. No one wanted to lose their job. 

“I'm-" Lance started before he could help himself. "I was informed that a private investigation has been started under Mr. Kogane’s watch to help find Matt. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time, now.”

He's not sure why he offers up the information to the friendly doctor, but he felt it was something she deserves to know. And Shay teared up a bit in response. As if having to deal with Shiro and his story hit home with her in a way no one else understood. She’s a genuinely pure person. Lance almost felt guilty lying to her like he’d done. 

Ah, not lying. Just, telling half-truths.  

“Thank you for your time, Shay.” 

The doctor followed him out into the hall where she shook his hand and pulled him into a hug. “Don’t hesitate to come back if you have more questions. I’d love to hear how Mr. Shirogane is progressing.” 

Lance turned with a thankful nod and held his breath the entire walk back to where Hunk had hidden behind the vending machine. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that Shay, had in fact, gone back into her office, prompting Lance to let out a gasp and brace his hands on his knees. 

“Holy shit,” He choked. “I’m gonna throw up.” 

“Was that her?” Hunk asked, rushing to his side with a twinkle in his eye. “Lance, buddy. _That_ was Dr. Eiden?”

Lance straightened and moved out of the way of a young girl using crutches to swing down the hall. The movement made the smell of apple cinnamon waft up from where Shay had hugged him and Hunk looked star struck. “Stop drooling and let’s go get something to eat. It felt like I was in there for _hours_.” 

“Okay,” Hunk squeaked. “But seriously, talk to me. That was Dr. Eiden, right? Is she married? She’s probably married. Or maybe she’s got a boyfriend.” 

Lance tuned out Hunk's gush of admiration and retrieved his phone from within his pocket to take down his notes.

To start, the Galra had taken Matt. The name doesn’t ring any bells, but if he dug deep enough, he was sure something promising would come up eventually. It just had to. 

And then there was the matter of Pidge and Shay having similar detective stories. That was a lead too good to pass up. There was definitely somebody on the police force refusing to give out any information in regards to Matt’s disappearance. If that was something caused by the VCC themselves, or this supposed "Galra" Shiro had blabbed about the night he was brought it, the. one of them would give Lance the story he needed.  

Lance saved the small document and mulled over an idea all the way to Hunk’s car. 

It had only been a day since he’d last spoken to Shiro, but he was anxious to get started on the interview. And by interview, he meant eavesdropping on whoever he could stalk amongst their employees because now he knew for sure, that Matt’s disappearance was a lot more complicated than he first thought. 

He ends up sending the message before he can stop himself. Will hate himself for it later.

**McClain, Lance  
**

_Takashi,_

_Contact me when you’d like to arrange a time to meet again._

No reply comes for the rest of the week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next.  
> Enter Keith.  
> And maybe kissing.  
> Okay, kissing.  
> Gotta get this train movin'


	6. Incidents and Identities

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“God fucking-” Lance hurled his phone flat against the polished dining table and cursed when the corner of his case knocked Hunk’s water off kilter. All three of them jumped and Lance blurted out a quick, “Sorry,” before scrambling in an attempt to prevent anymore water damage. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Would it kill them to give us more napkins?” 

Hunk took over shaking out one of the laminated files still dripping with residual water while Allura busied herself coaxing him down with a level hand of, _chill_ , _chill_.

He was frustrated. That much was obvious. 

Why you ask?

Because he’d gone and lied about his true motives to the one man that was absolutely crucial in getting Lance his story. And now? _Now_ he had to come up with a phoney list of questions that would not only _hopefully_ assist his weakening act, but also include things about Matt’s disappearance at the same time. He’d pulled two all-nighters weaving each question in such an intricate manner that if Takashi refused to answer some, Lance would still get what he wanted out of the man with the next page. 

It was perfect. It was admirable. It was _maddening_. 

Lance had spent the better part of his Thursday afternoon stalking around the office, leaning this way, stretching that way, listening to his phone ring, and ring, and ring again. Ring so much that he felt he might go crazy if he had to spend another second dialing and redialing. 

He did so anyway. Only because Takashi Shirogane was making it his life's work to avoid him. 

And Lance knows, logically, that Shiro was a busy man. He’d expected it to take some time for the owner to talk things over with his partner, maybe get some insight from his workers, then take another day or two before coming to a consensus and finally giving Lance a call. A call that never came.

Not a single text, no sign of an email, and not one goddamn phone call.

That was the definition of avoidance. Lance was being avoided. 

“I don’t,” Lance held his hands up by his head and stared at the table as if it would provide the right answers. “I don’t understand.” 

It made absolutely no sense for Takashi to just, blow him off like he’d done. Lance had already confirmed that he’d made Shiro suspicious, we've already been over that. And Shiro, technically, had every right to be when Lance was _blatantly_ lying to his face about his assignment. But it wasn’t like his story raised immediate red flags. He had executed the first meeting perfectly. Got Shiro to like him, liked Shiro in return.

He’d followed every step, every rule, and for some reason, that _still_ hadn’t been enough. 

Which made him think, maybe Shiro had gone off the radar for a reason. Maybe this was something Lance needed to take note of because why would the owner go MIA like he’d done unless he was nervous? 

“Lance?” Allura stretched her curvy frame along the table and snapped her fingers close to his nose. It’s not nearly enough to break him of his concentration but it does have him blinking. “Love, your pizza is getting cold.” 

“Does he need another slice?” 

Plaxum wandered over in the midst of tying her hair up in a course bun, and when Lance finally noticed her presence, she raised a brow at him in question. He didn’t _need_ another pizza slice, he needed answers. 

Shit, that sounded cool. Remember that line.

“I made him nervous,” Lance murmured. “He must think that this lack of silence will deter me, but it won’t. I’m gonna find a way to get to him.” 

Hunk scarfed down the rest of his third slice and flashed Lance a wary frown. “Don’t you think you should just, I don’t know. Wait a bit longer?” 

“I’ve waited two weeks, Hunk.” 

“And?”

“And he’s hit the danger zone of termination,” Allura provided helpfully. “The longer the silence, the greater the risk of losing your intel.” 

“So what’s the plan?” 

Lance had already considered driving his ass to a construction site in hopes of finding Takashi, but the last thing he needed was a trespassing charge. He’d also gone to great lengths to spam the poor man with endless messages, something he wasn’t proud of, but did out of frustration the night prior. Without any way of contacting Shiro, he had no idea when the man would be vulnerable for ambush.

Unless...

“Allura!”

Said woman jumped at his sudden burst of energy, blue eyes wide with anticipation and lips parted slightly to make way for the line of cheese she hadn’t had time to fit into her mouth. That’s not important. What’s important is-

“Benson’s charity gala. The one you and Iverson were talking about last Wednesday? When is it?”

Allura slurped up the strand of hanging cheese and hastily pulled out a small notebook to stare at a scribbled date. The blue penmanship is barely legible, but she has no trouble holding it out and saying, 

“This Thursday at eight o’clock. It’s at this fancy art museum they just erected downtown.”

Yes. _Yes, yes, yes!_

Lance made a giddy noise of excitement because _that_ was his opening. God he was good sometimes. It never hurt to listen in on your coworkers conversations. Someone always had something you could use for your own advantage. 

So he used Allura. 

The art museum was a recently restored piece of architecture rebuilt and constructed by the one and only, Voltron Construction Company. He remembered keeping a spreadsheet on file of recent, up and coming, and hiatus projects the VCC had engaged in. All he needed to hear was the last name Benson and he’d saved the date in the recesses of his mind.

It was a move worth the ridicule. 

“I appreciate this, Allura. I really do.”

Allura hummed out a response, securing her hair in a thick braid that trickled down her shoulder in a gentle river of white. It’s a stark contrast against her darker skin and Lance is man enough to appreciate the way the gown shivered along her body. A simple white slip dress that brushed at her ankles and dipped low between her breasts so that her collarbone was on display; blue eyes vibrant. 

She was a woman of intentional seduction. What better way to get information than play a man's heart? Or woman's heart. Allura had her ways. 

“I’m just surprised you remembered,” Allura said, breathless with her adjustments before straightening and giving him a thoughtful once over.

Lance had gone as casual as a gala could possibly get. Not saying he looked like trash, but he needed to remain comfortable in the event he found Takashi and managed a conversation. It’d be too overwhelming if he’d gone with such formal attire, so he settled for an all black theme and a navy blue bowtie. 

Roll up the wrists and the two of them are drawing eyes only seconds after entering. 

“Target?” Allura asked beneath a warm smile, lips barely moving.

Lance swiped up an offering of wine and hid his words against the rim of the glass. “Scar along the bridge of the nose. Tall, white tuft of hair, metal arm.” 

“Metal arm?” 

“He’s beautiful,” Lance blurted. Some of the party goers nearby paused to flash expressions of confusion as he sputtered and looked away. “It’s beautiful. His arm is—i-it’s unique.” 

“I see,” Allura drew out.

Lance doesn’t need to see her sly smirk to know she’s reading between the lines. Whatever those lines may be. And although Lance was her plus one, she couldn’t stand around and ignore the fact that she was here on her own assignment. 

Nothing much, she tells him. Just a small article about the new museum and the attractions it hosts. A little insight from the creator himself and she’s done. Allura will keep an eye out for him, though. There’s three floors worth of people mingling about and Lance is sure that Takashi will show eventually. He just has to. As the brain behind the entire building, the chances of him _not_ coming aren’t likely. 

Lance scoured the bottom floor carefully; kept a half-empty wine glass that he drained periodically to seem engaged. An older couple let out joyous welcomes that had Lance’s head swiveling for identification, but when he came up short, he slipped away. Shiro wasn’t here. 

So he goes up. 

At some point, Allura managed to wrangle her interviewee into a room filled with twinkling lights and dim sculptures. It’s dark enough that Lance begin to wonder why she’d chosen this room to engage, but he can see, from his spot in the corner, that the black lights illuminate her in a chilling glow that mesmerizes. She’s electric and charming, a hand to the shoulder here, gentle touches that say friendly even though you’d want to take it further. 

Lance admired her work.

He keeps a close eye on the few ghosting individuals who sway from light sculpture to light sculpture, short sparks of blue just bright enough that they give Lance a visual on the passing faces. 

No scar, no white hair. 

This floors a bust, too. 

A gentle laugh rose up and rode the light sound of piano keys drifting in the air, a sound that has Lance looking at where Allura had begun extracting Mr. Benson from anyone wanting to bide his time. She’s quick. It’ll only be a matter of time before the man is shoved down in some chair and bombarded with an array of questions that you don’t dare ignore because this woman has given you her precious attention and you better offer something in return. 

It was a forcefulness Lance wasn’t privy to. For one, he was a man, and men weren’t as disarming as beautiful women with friendly smiles. He had to work twice as hard just to get people to talk to him for a few measly minutes. Hence _why_ he was having so much trouble with his assignment in the first place. 

His point?

Woman knew how to adapt and kick ass at their job. 

Simple as that.

The sturdy weight of a nearby sculpture brushed against Lance’s hip and had him immediately stumbling back to avoid a catastrophe. In doing so, he completely missed the neighboring presence of a human body and rocked into them with the force of a middle school football player.

From there, several things happened at once. There was an exhaled curse, something along the lines of _fuck_ , and the owner of said voice pulled Lance upright and flush against the line of their solid body in one swift motion. So fast, that Lance could only gawk up at the stranger in surprise. But the forceful tug accompanied with the trip up of Lance’s feet has his arms flailing and glass tipping before he can do much to help it.

A wobbly, “Ah-” punched out without his consent and he hastily tried to right himself, come to find a strong arm resistant to the attempt. He was blushing now; wincing at the way his fingers _squelched_ in the material of a silk shirt when he settled.

Expensive. 

“I,” Lance inhaled. “Am _so_ sorry. I didn’t see you behind me and-”

“We both just so happened to be holding glasses of wine?”

Forget blushing, Lance went pale. There was a mix of frustration and amusement in the man’s tone that prompted him to stare down at the dark spot spidering out along the marble flooring in horror. Horror because he had not only destroyed this guy's shirt, but because he’s also painfully aware of the way they're fitted against one another. Nothing but a thin break of space between their damp chests.

So he tried again, this time, working to _not_ take notice of their little predicament. “I’m really sorry. I can pay for the dry cleaning if you want? I’m sure they’ll be able to-”

Both of them looked down at the stain, and even if Lance was hopeful, there was no hope for that shirt.

“Right,” the man drawled, speaking as slow as his retreating hand until the two of them had some space to work with. His pale fingers moved up to play with the give in his shirt, eyes examining the stain before flickering up to greet Lance with a slightly intimidating smirk. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

Lance felt his body lock up. Never mind the dread coiling in his gut at his mistake, there was a tingling sensation that started at the tips of his fingers and sang along his nerves as he gazed into dark violet eyes he could _swear_ he’d seen before. 

Maybe in a past interview? 

No, Lance would remember someone as attractive as the man before him. 

Then in the newspaper?

That could be it. This was a gala after all. Either way, Lance had trouble tearing his eyes away from the strangers relaxed shoulders and seemingly growing aura. He definitely had a presence about him.

“I-Is there a bathroom nearby?” Lance offered. The blue lights that flickered above illuminated the stranger in a dark shadow of lean power that had Lance inching away on instinct. He didn’t mean to, but the action had those violet eyes accounting for the movement almost immediately before zeroing back in on his wary face.

“You think you can get it out?”  

No, but Lance wasn’t above trying. 

He’s also not above staring at the retreating ass that lead him out of the exhibit and down a hallway with walls covered in what looked like magazine articles. If he searched hard enough, maybe he’d find something with his name on it.

“Alright.” The man sighed. “Good luck, I guess?” He began unbuttoning his shirt and didn’t seem to mind the way Lance blushed and tried to avert his gaze. Apparently, this whole entire scene wasn’t too out of the ordinary for this guy but Lance was visibly affected. 

He could only pray the crimson splotch will leak out from the blood red satin. He also prayed to whatever god there was that he didn’t drool over the sight of the stranger hovering behind him.

“This is,” Lance thought aloud, “Cliche.”

“Very.” 

Lance can’t bring himself to look up at the man, doesn’t really trust himself, so he focuses on the task at hand and set to scrubbing the delicate material. 

“You got a name?” Lance asked, still not brave enough to peek. “Or should I just call you Mullet.” 

That triggered a spark of...something in those violet eyes. Something that has Lance halting for a short moment and trying to suppress the nervous heat in his belly. 

“Red,” the man replied. “People call me Red.” 

“Because of the shirt?” 

Red gave a minatory smile. “You mean the one you just ruined?” 

Lance flushed pink and turned the faucet off in response. The stain, although not as obvious as it’d been prior, was still there. So he squirts a generous amount of soap on the silk and starts over. This time, a bit more rigourous in his work.

“You don’t seem the type to be wandering around art museums,” Lance muttered, a bit put out with the whole situation.

Don’t get him wrong, he loved arguing with strangers as much as the next guy, but Red? Red made him...

“I’m an associate of Mr. Benson,” Red replied easily enough; slid closer to Lance to watch him work. “I could say the same thing about you as well.” 

“Because I ran into you?”

Red gave him a pointed look that had Lance bristling. “That’s one reason,” he murmured, then, without mercy, added, “You also look like the type to lose concentration in less than a second.”

Lance blushed. “I’m actually here on business, _Mullet,_ ” he punctuated bluntly. If Red were closer, he might of even jabbed a finger to his chest. “ _Plus_ , I wasn’t particularly _dazzled_ by what you call art out there.” 

“That so?” 

If not for the ruined shirt in his hands, Lance would’ve walked out of the bathroom in search of Allura. He’d already spent a good twenty minutes talking to a dick of a personality and in that time, Shiro could have come and gone.

“What kind of business?” 

When Lance looked back, confusion evident in his eyes, Red leaned closer. 

“Business,” he repeated. “What kind?”

Oh. “I’m a journalist,” he explained. “Lance McClain from The Seattle Heat? I’ve done a few articles for the—no?”

Red continued to shake his head. “Never heard of you,” he admitted, either ignoring the flash of hurt in Lance’s eyes or not seeing it. “So what? You here to talk to Benson?”

“No,” Lance grumbled. The last remaining soap suds washed down the drain and he turned the faucet off. “I’m here to speak with the owners of the construction company that gave _this_ to you guys.”

“The Voltron Construction Company?” 

Lance nodded and moved to the hand dryer in the corner. And like a shadow, Red moved with him, sticking uncomfortably close and eyeing the movements of his hands quietly. 

“I didn’t think the owners were coming tonight. Benson was pretty upset.”

The information had Lance deflating a bit, shoulders sagging and lower lip jutted out slightly. If that were true, then he’d wasted an entire night ruining shirts and cleaning up after himself. 

“Then I guess I’ll have to get in touch some otherway,” Lance mumbled. “Dammit.” 

Red became a looming presence behind him, the definition of unbearably close as Lance flipped the shirt inside out and hastily ran the dryer over it to keep busy. 

“You know they tend to stay out of the social spotlight, right?”

That piqued Lance’s interest. Maybe this guy knew something, especially if he were in business with the VCC. It’s a switch that flipped and had Lance angling himself to glance up at Red in question. 

“That so?” Lance asked carefully. “Why?” 

And Red shrugged, watched as Lance pulled his shirt out from under the dryer before saying, “They’re an interesting company.”

“Really?” Lance said dumbly. “Construction can only get so exciting.”

Red moved closer and Lance kept his eyes down this time. The shirt was dry by now, but he made no move to hand it over. Not when he was privy to information.

“I heard buisness got bad after that one kids disappearance. It’s why Benson helped them out with a project.” 

Coincidence. 

Lance felt the alarm bells ring and immediately forced his shoulders to relax before they tensed up. Even forced himself to look at Red, feigned confusion nice and well so that when that violet gaze of calculation scanned his features, nothing would come off as out of the ordinary. 

Coincidences in this work were good when _others_ were the target. Not when _he_ was. And if Red were an associate of Mr. Benson, then the man would have known that the VCC hadn’t even flinched after the owners accident. 

 _Act_.

“Kid?” Lance parroted. “Someone went missing?” 

Red pressed his lips into a thin line and stared at Lance harder, lashes fluttering as his eyes flickered about in a rapid fire. Searching, searching, then, backing off when they found nothing. Lance was safe. 

“Rumors,” Red finally exhaled. “Nothing more. Just wanted to see if you were one to believe everything you hear.” He gave Lance a rude once over and “tsked _”_  before adding, “You look that type too.”

Lance forgets the odd conversation for a moment in favor of defending himself as an individual. “I’ll have you know that I take _everything_ into account, Mullet. Everything.”

“Just not your surroundings.” 

Both of them look down at the half dry shirt and see that, like Red said, the water hadn’t done much to get the stain out. It was worth the shot. Definitely not worth the incoming blow to his bank account, but an attempt nonetheless. 

“I-I don’t think anyone will notice.” 

“It’s a seven hundred dollar shirt, Lance.”

Oh sweet Jesus. 

The air punched from his lungs in one gust and the counter was his only support as his knees buckled.

That was a payday. Two payday’s actually. He didn’t have that kind of money in his account. Especially not now.

But Lance wasn’t an asshole. “I can p-pay,” he offered, although it hurt to do so. 

And Red seemed to consider him for a short moment, brows furrowed in silent concentration, before he reached out and retrieved his soiled shirt. In low light, no one would be able to see the blemished material, but here, Lance can see his mistake just fine as the man’s slim fingers re-buttoned and tucked the shirt back in it’s rightful place. 

“You don’t have the money, do you?” 

Lance shook his head, wanting to lie, realized quickly, that lying would only hurt him, and hastily changed his answer with a weak nod. Because no, he didn’t have the funds to pay this guy back right now. No matter how threateningly attractive he was.

“Guess we have to think of something else, then,” Red pondered aloud. 

Lance could lose hot water and electricity for a month as long as it meant he was getting out of here without being beaten. And maybe, if Iverson was generous enough, he could get his paycheck early and make his first installment on a shirt that wasn’t even _his_.

“Come here.”

Red beckoned him with a pale hand, watching with unwavering determination as Lance was broken from his thoughts and took a few apprehensive steps forward until they were back to that barely there space between them. 

It must be close enough though, because Red gave Lance a quick look of consideration before nodding to himself in some sort of inner self agreement. Agreement to what? Lance didn’t know nor did he care. Not when he was being crowded against and looked at as if he were some unsolvable puzzle. 

And if things couldn’t get weirder.

“Open your mouth.”

Red looked deathly serious, completely at ease with what he’d just said despite the flush of color that tinged the Cuban’s cheeks and gave away his nerves.

Lance pointed a trembling finger to his lips. “Open my...”

And Red nodded, _yes_. “Your mouth. Open it.”

Lance hesitated, flinched when Red caught his hesitation, and tried to remain calm. Realistically, he figured Red would tell him to pay up in the next month, maybe ask for a check, or tell him to face the consequences. But reality was being rather twisted currently, or maybe it was being generous. He had yet to find out. 

Red’s patience dissipated the longer Lance stayed frozen. “You said you would pay for it, Lance. So open your mouth for me.” 

Now he got it.

Heat rushed from his cheeks to the tips of his ears as Red pressed closer and loomed against him. The man wasn’t taller, per say, but the broadness of his shoulders and noticeable layer of muscle was substantial compared to Lance’s long limbs and lankiness. He’s in no position to fight. No position to argue.

So what else is he left to do?

Run. He could definitely run.

But what kinda story would that leave?

Lance squeezed his eyes shut and opened his mouth like he’d been told. Like this, he had no idea if Red was going to punch him and take his wallet, or leave him standing there like an idiot for tarnishing his expensive dress shirt.

His answer comes in the form of a thumb, tracing at the edge of his lower lip, nudging and persuading until Lance could feel the warm pad tease the tip of his tongue. His body reacts on impulse, pulling away from the unfamiliar touch which, in turn, made Red retreat slightly. 

Lance was vulnerable like this. Unaware of his surroundings and _completely_ caught off guard when warm lips pressed soft against his in a tentative slide, as if unsure whether Lance was going to bolt or stay put. And Lance was starting to think it just might be the latter because how long had it been since he’d been kissed?

Too long.

A purr of approval rumbled up through Red’s chest when he relaxed into the touch, and Lance responded with a needy little gasp that had Red walking against him, step after step, until his back hit flat against the wall with a light, _thump_.

This was Red showing him mercy.

So Lance had better show gratitude in return.

Using his hand to cup at Lance’s face, Red angled their mouths to a better suited position and hummed when his tongue traced the line of the reporters lips carefully, dipping up and in when Lance opened wide enough.

It was absolutely maddening.

Lance couldn’t remember the last time he’d been kissed like this. The last time his body hummed in arousal with the simplest of touches.

It was maddening, yes, but it was absolutely terrifying as well when Red’s knee nudged up between his parted thighs and _pushed_.

Lance broke away with a gasp; felt his pulse jump when his voice echoed and triggered Red’s lust further in the flash of canines. Canines that dig deep into his throat suddenly and damn near break skin as Lance locked his arms tight around Red’s neck and resisted the urge to cry out.

The man comes up for air quickly, violet clashing with blue as each of them took a moment to find their wits and question what it was they were doing exactly. Anyone could walk in. There were voices trickling past as it  _stood._

It was unprofessional; _fireable_ on Lance’s part. 

“I want it paid in full,” Red said gruffly, voice like gravel and looking beyond _wrecked_  in the way he panted above him. 

Lance could only imagine what he looked like. Doesn’t even have the time to because Red had already swooped down and gathered him close, then closer, as his tongue plunged between his swollen lips and targeted his soft upper palate with gentle strokes. As if he thrived off Lance’s shivers; would do anything to see him melt.

And the fight Lance puts up is laughable. Merely a struggle that Red feeds into and rumbles when he gained dominance. Regained control over the pace he had set and pushed that much harder to bully Lance into submission.

He goes down quick.

Red purred again, eyes peeking open to watch the flutter of Lance’s lashes as he pulled away and swallow the panicked whimper Lance emitted at the disconnect. Because somehow through all this, Lance found himself leaning into the touches, craving the way their tongues clashed and retreated in a rushed state of desperation.

Red kissed him again, gently but with purpose. Reassuring the reporter that they weren’t finished. 

Not in the slightest. 

Lance managed a good grip on the back of Red’s neck and tugged him closer, deepening the connection and encouraging the man whose hands had begun to wander.

And Red groaned his approval, grabbing handfuls of Lance’s ass with a grin the Cuban could feel against his lips—cocky bastard.

If that wasn’t enough to get Lance burning inside and out, then the way Red flexed against him had him _gone_.

He was panting, cheeks flush, hands desperate, and he’s not even aware of the way his hips have started rolling until Red mimics the movement and makes a wounded sound in back of his throat when pleasure unfurls between them.

It’s an invitation, one explicitly for Red to work along his skin and pick out every personal sensitivity of his. The line of his throat, the shell of his ear, whatever. Red is more than welcome to adventure into the warmth in his gut and draw it out of him in whatever way he deeemed fit; be it the tongue in his mouth or the hands on his body.

Lance knows it’s only a matter of time before that suggestion is made a reality, and it punches a weak moan from between his lips as nimble fingers played at the tuck of his shirt and pulled. Full of so much promise it’s _dizzying_.

His brain goes fuzzy.

“ **Keith**.” 

Lance felt the way Red’s muscles tensed beneath his splayed hands, the way he seemed reluctant to move at first, not even flinching at the harsh addressment, before finding it in himself to peek out from where Lance was gasping for breath; body quivering against him. 

And if things couldn’t get any more strange, it was Shiro who blinked in obvious surprise, a weak, “Lance?” leaving his mouth and further bringing the Cuban back from his dazed wonderland of lust. Not how he wanted to meet Takashi again, but he had bigger things to worry about.

And he wasn't talking about the pressure against his hip, thank you very much. 

“Transaction complete.” Red? No. _Keith_ , quipped. 

Keith as in _Keith_. Keith Kogane. 

“You’re...”

Keith flashed a satisfied half-smile before leaning back gracefully and taking the last shred of support Lance was relying on. His knees gave out, and Shiro let out a startled sound that had Keith looking down at Lance's flushed face in something akin to pride.

“Keith,” Shiro started carefully, metal fingers flexing in the air. “Go wait in the car.” 

The man gave a cocky, "Yes, sir," something Lance noted with a _ba-_ _thump_ of his heart, before adding, "He's clear," and flashing Lance a knowing grin that disappeared when the door shut. 

The silence was heavy. 

Lance was just seconds away from having a mental breakdown.

And all Shiro can think to say is, “I think he likes you.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was that? What a way for Lance to meet Keith right? I mean, I had a feeling Keith would kind of bully Lance so I wanted their meeting to be wild. And Lance was smart enough to keep his story on track when Keith started questioning him. I was proud of my boy, not gonna lie. But this not only starts contact between Keith and Lance now, but also has Lance a bit more suspicious of them. Why did Keith lie about his identity and question him like that if he knew who Lance was? Why did he make out with him in the middle of a bathroom? Did Lance like it? Yes. Is he bothered? In more ways than one. Will Shiro have to deal with the repercussions? Also yes.  
> Thank you all for the comments and kudos! I love you guys!


	7. A Perfect World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all read the tags, right? Fair warning, a lot happens this chapter.

* * *

In a perfect world, Shiro would have never let himself get attached to the young boy with stars in his eyes and a dream in his head. In this world, Shiro may have never become the man he was today. Maybe he’d be a teacher. An office worker. Hell, a lot of people said he looked like a cop. 

Imagine that. 

Innocent. Carefree. A dreamer just like Matt had been. 

This world wouldn’t be cruel. He wouldn’t have to lose an arm. Wouldn’t have to bare with the pain of a thousand stitches trying desperately to sew him back into the person he was before. Wouldn’t need to grit his teeth and keep his mouth shut because you know what happens if you squeal. You know what goes down if you breathe a goddamn word, so stay straight.

In a perfect world, Shiro wouldn’t be Shiro at all. He’d be different. _Human_. 

And in that world, Shiro would probably have something a whole lot better to say when Lance looks up at him in complete and utter disbelief. The epitome of shock as the reality of the situation seeped in and had them both at a loss for words. 

He should say something. Does, and fucks it up anyway.

“Lance, wait.”

Shiro's arm shot out in an attempt to snag the fleeing reporter. It wasn’t often that people tried to run from him and even when they did, it wasn’t like they got very far. So it comes as a surprise when his hand closes around an empty plume of air smelling of stale arousal and lingering vanilla, both of which, do nothing to help the nagging ache blooming in his gut. Let’s not forget the visual his eyes had just been privy to. That scene alone would have _anyone_ shifting in discomfort. And not the bad kind of discomfort.

The short beat of hesitation is the only thing that has Shiro lagging behind the retreating journalist. The boy is rather thin; lanky in stature and possessing the ability to slink through merging pockets of people as he cut across the main floor towards the exit. The only problem is Shiro’s the complete opposite. His height makes it incredibly easy to keep an eye on the weaving brunette, but the sheer width of his body has his shoulder knocking into a tall woman not even halfway through the exhibit. She’s an innocent bystander just trying to admire some shitty excuse of a painting, and if it weren’t for the fact that he had a reputation to uphold, he would’ve ignored the gasp of offense and continued his chase. 

But he was a gentleman, if not anything else. 

“P-Pardon me,” Shiro stuttered. The wine in her glass had sloshed dangerously against the rim but settled when he reached out to steady her. It’s an honest mistake. One he’s sure someone had already made during this chaotic night, but for some goddamn reason, everyone around looks at him as if he just fired a gun.

Drama comes next in the form of a dainty hand held lightly to her breast and Shiro suppressed the urge to grumble as she looked him up and down, just a quick flicker of her aqua eyes before a spark of recognition danced along her features.

“Mr. Shirogane?”

Shiro took his hand from her bare arm. He could see that Lance had slowed, although minutely, due to the growing crowd gathering about a pulsating sculpture. If he ran for it, he’d be able to catch the Cuban before he disappeared from sight completely.

All he had to do get away from this stranger. 

“I’m Allura Fala,” she pressed on. “From The Seattle Heat?” 

Yes, yes, that’s swell and all, but Shiro didn’t have time to sit around and chat. He was slowly trying to inch his way out of sight in hopes that she’d take a hint and cut the conversation, but he found himself quickly advanced on by the dark skinned woman. _Allura_ , he corrected mentally.

And _Allura_ sets her glass down before placing her hands carefully at her sides. One after the other in a calculated manner intended to calm him. He’s seen Ulaz do it before, so it has absolutely _no_ affect on him. 

It throws her. “A colleague of mine is actually looking for you.” She explained. “Lance-”

“McClain?” Shiro cut in.

The underlying impatience in his tone doesn't go unnoticed and she visibly flinched at his brooding, eyes going guarded as he inhaled impatiently. 

 _Back off_ , he thought. Actually _says_ , “Listen, as much as I’d love to continue this conversation, I’m currently in the middle of something important, so if you would...”

Move.

Shiro physically _moves_ her. He tries to be gentle, can’t help but dig his fingers into her skin a bit when she resists at first. But, like most people, she fails to slow him as he curved around her figure and took off through the crowd at a much more hurried pace. His name rang in the air, a question on glossed lips, but Shiro was too focused on the scrambling Cuban practically running for the elevator. If he could just...make it before...

 _Fuck_.

Lance is gone. He throws himself into the elevator, jams a thumb straight into the side panel and ignores the way Shiro calls out to him. Ignores _him_. He’s running away. 

And really? What did Shiro expect? 

 **Obedience**.

The doors slipped closed and Shiro slammed a fist against the metal in frustration. People flashed him twin looks of unease, unease turning to fright when the impact left a massive dent in the sturdy material. He’d pay for it later. Right now, he needed to run. 

They were currently on the second level. If someone were to walk down the back stairs, they’d be able to reach the parking garage in five minutes. 

Shiro makes it in two. 

“Gotcha.” 

Lance let out a squeak when Shiro wrapped him up nice and tight, spun him around and walked them back until they were far, _far,_ away from the door and any other exit the man could find. Doesn’t stop walking until he’s convinced there is absolutely no way Lance can run from him. 

“Let,” Lance squirms, “Me,” digs his feet into the ground, “ _Go_ ,” and stumbles when Shiro releases him. 

The smaller man is all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, physically exerted from the struggle and very obviously trying to regain some semblance of himself after being attacked not once, but _twice_. He’s quite the sight. A sight Shiro would burn into his memory and store for reference. Not that he needed to. 

“You ran from me,” Shiro stated. 

Lance adjusted his dress shirt and shot a glare his way. "Damn right I ran,” he seethed. “Anyone would after that little stunt you pulled back there.”

“ _My_ stunt?” 

“Yeah,” Lance spits. He flicked off an imaginary fleck of dust and unleashed his frustration in the form of a deep set frown. "If you didn’t want to do the damn interview, you could’ve just called. There was no reason for you to go sick your partner on me like that.”

Shiro opened his mouth to defend himself; let his teeth click together when Lance didn’t give him the chance.

“I give you the option to terminate. Agree to all your terms even though it makes _my_ job harder, and then you just, go and ignore me?”  

Yes.

“I have a job to do, Takashi,” Lance snapped, pointing a rather expressive finger towards the ground in anger. “This is how I pay my bills. Instead of wasting my time, the least you could’ve done was tell me the interview was off.” 

Fair point. 

And Shiro knows Lance has every right to be upset. The businessman in him _understands_ that; pardons Lance even, because he’s taking this a whole lot better than most people would. But the under-boss in him is ruthless and cold. It accepts no excuses for Lance’s behavior, it just doesn’t. It demands respect, orders patience, _craves_ submission. Shiro drew a fine line between each head-space and the waver in their separation made him shift in discomfort.

He needed to slow things down. 

“I’m sorry," he started carefully. "I'm sorry I didn’t call, Lance. I made a note to, I did-”

“You just forgot.” Lance said bitterly.

Shiro flashed him a look. “People tend to do that when they’re working on a hundred plus projects, _Mr. McClain_.” 

Lance flinches. He must catch the creep of anger in Shiro's tone and decides it'd be best to back down, if only a little.

And Shiro let's out a digressing sigh before crossing his arms along his chest. Obviously, there was no way he was getting out of this like he’d hoped. He had made a promise, a _pinky_ promise no less, not that that mattered in the eyes of a mafia head, but it was the principle of the thing. He wasn’t about to tarnish his name under one of the largest reporting companies, especially over something as small as an interview. That'd be stupid.

So he calls upon his first line of defense.

Apology.

“I didn’t intentionally avoid you, Lance. I meant it when I said I wanted to help you with your assignment."

“Then what was Kogane about?” Lance accused. He pressed forward and poked a thin finger into the center of Shiro’s chest, an action not many people walked away from without injury. But the flicker of judgement in the blazing blue of his eyes is something Shiro found highly intriguing. Challenging, in a way. A part of him wanted to see more.

“Did you think I was lying about my identity? Cuz, I gave you my card. You have every resource to do a background check on me.”

Shiro agreed. "You’re right.”

“So why-” 

“Lance, I don’t _control_ Keith,” Shiro chided. “Whatever he did back there? That was of his own accord. Completely against my orders, but his own decision nonetheless.” 

Lance frowned. “He lied about his identity.”

Shiro had told him to. But Lance couldn’t know that, so he wracks his brain for a decent enough excuse. “Keith has always been paranoid when it comes to the company. He probably wanted to make sure you weren’t some crooked journalist looking to write some false tabloid. It’s happened before.” 

Lance looked at Shiro carefully, skeptical, but not completely untrusting before muttering, “So he wards off lying bottom feeders by making out with them? That doesn’t...”

Make sense? No, it didn’t. All the warmth in Shiro’s chest trickled out at the reminder. The urge to verbally lay into Keith growing, itching beneath his skin in encouragement when he saw the way Lance pressed the tips of his fingers to the bottom of his lip. It had Shiro’s insides pinching with...

Jealousy?

“Keith’s an impulsive little shit,” Shiro grumbled; quiet in his curse but loud enough to just make out. It had Lance looking up with a faint blush and a soft, _hm?_ To which Shiro struggled to find a more appropriate response.

“Keith isn’t very patient,” he reiterated. “If he sees something he likes...”

He takes it.

Lance doesn’t need help filling in the blank, and although he looks far too happy to be told this, he schools his expression into something professional and tries to look as nonchalant as he can after the boost to his ego.

"We’ll just forget it ever happened,” he decides. “Our relationship should remain purely professional.” 

“Of course,” Shiro nodded. "And since Keith seems to, um, trust you-" Lance flashed him a knowing smile. "I'd be more than happy to set up a time to meet again.” 

Lance brightened impossibly fast with the suggestion. It’s fascinating just watching the blend of emotions that play across his soft features, ridding all internal frustration and letting relief take it’s place. Pretty soon, fond exasperation had Shiro smiling in return as Lance pulled out his phone and asked what dates worked best for him. Day or night, he says. 

“I’ll be there.” 

They settle on the coming Saturday. The workload is usually small and business hours, not very long. If Lance can make it up to their office before closing, then Shiro would be more than willing to answer whatever questions Lance had before they released the Cuban onto company grounds. 

It’s a compromise. Duct tape to a crumbling building, if you would. It’s not exactly a solution, but it’s the only thing Shiro can think to do in order to keep his people safe from prying eyes. 

So he waved Lance off. He has to get back before Allura kills him, but the man is happy. Way happier than Shiro expected him to be. And he makes sure to force a gentle smile, waiting until the doors close before cutting the act and letting his arm drop.

Lance is no longer a concern.

The car to his immediate left roared to life and blinded him with its headlights. The glare forces him to squint his entire charge to the drivers side and Shiro's barely opened the car door when he’s cut off by a, “He’s cute, huh?” 

Keith looks at him. "Small little thing.” 

"Like your brain?" Shiro quipped back harshly. "You're done, Keith."

Keith snickered, completely unfazed by Shiro's glower and chuckling out a, “No, I'm not," with a sly expression. "I _met_ him.” 

“Against my orders.” 

“He was going to find us eventually,” Keith waved flippantly. “Besides, I didn’t see _you_ laying low like you promised.” 

Shiro opened his mouth to argue. Keith wasn’t his superior, he was his right-hand-man. The second he went against orders, Shiro should’ve called him off. Should've sent him home and punished him by signing Antok on. But he didn't. Only because Keith saw right through him.

The death grip he had on the steering wheel slackened and he chewed on his lower lip in reluctant defeat. The plan had been to go off the radar. Avoid Lance and any goons he may send their way at all costs in hopes that all contact would deteriorate along with whoever gave him the assignment. Coming to Benson's gala had been his first mistake.

He hadn't really  _ignored_ the invitation, per say. In fact, he immediately responded and told the man to expect not only his presence, but Keith’s as well. Why? He didn’t know. 

Either way, Shiro should have shut it down when he had the chance and he hadn’t. No good would come out of playing with Lance, that much he knew.

“He’s got you, Takashi,” Keith taunted, suddenly a lot closer than he’d been previously. “You want him.” 

The click of the car seat pulled Shiro from his silent contemplation. The support against his back had dropped out sending him crashing down against the rear seat with a dull,  _thud_. It's all Keith needs to loom above him, violet eyes burning with unresolved sexual tension because he'd gotten a preview of what Lance had to offer and now he craved to see the entire thing.

Giving Keith a stern frown, Shiro struggled to get the words out without his voice cracking. “You take priority,” he clarified. “The _group_ , takes priority. I don’t want anything else.”

“You’re a bad liar, Takashi.” 

"And you're a hypocrite," he pointed out. "I vividly recall you wanting to kill him."

A shiver of anticipation rolled through Keith's body, and Shiro followed it with a rake of his eyes.

"He could be fun," is all Keith says before he's swallowing Shiro's next argument with a curl of his tongue, quick and silent just like his work. He was careful in his movements, cat-like in the way he settled himself flush in Shiro’s lap and ground down against him in ways he hadn't been able to with Lance. But they could dream, couldn’t they?

“You can taste him on me,” Keith breathed. “Can’t you?” 

Shiro groaned in response, flicked his eyes open and glared at Keith with a faint snarl just to remind him who was in charge. Keith growled back and let his concentration find the open expanse of Shiro’s vulnerable throat. 

“Say his name.” 

Shiro was better than this. _Smarter_ than this. He wasn’t going to let Keith pull his strings like he was doing, no matter the burn that came with resisting. 

And Keith rocked forward, biting deep into the flesh of his shoulder and rolling his hips like Lance had done to him. Mimicking those movements to give Shiro a taste of what he was missing. It created just the right amount of friction to have their erections pressing heavy against each other.

“Say it, Shiro.” 

He won’t.

“ _Say_. _It_.”

Goddammit.

“ _Lance_.”

Keith’s head cracked back against the top of the car as Shiro’s thighs bounced him up in a powerful grind. He was a snarling mess beneath the advisor, the color of his eyes swallowed by his pupils as he loosened up on the restraint he’d tied down while talking to Lance. It was a trick Keith learned to settle him after stressful events. It was a trick used for the privacy of their _bedroom_ , not a goddamn parking lot.

Their desperate gasps had the windows fogging with the heat of their arousal, and if Keith hadn't been sweating before? He was definitely covered in a thin sheen now. Shiro had reached down to grab at Keith’s ass and roll their hips together in purposeful grind, an action used to express his need. They took to writhing, thrusting against the tight fabric of their pants and snarling their sexual frustration into the small space of the car as Lance’s name spilled between bitten lips. 

It was filthy, it was unprofessional, it was too soon.

A grunt of surprise left Shiro’s open mouth as Keith’s hand snaked down the front of his pants. He fumbled, hand knocking against the brake before he was able to mimic Keith’s actions and find pleasure in the coaxing strokes. Hands found open skin, teeth found blank canvases of flesh, and Shiro groaned Lance’s name into the side of his arm as he came, Keith following behind as wave after wave of euphoria dribbled between their fingers and beckoned them into a clouded high filled with thoughts of blue eyes and pretty skin. 

Thoughts of the  _enemy_.

“Christ,” Shiro muttered, letting his body sink back as Keith leaned against the armrest and flashed him a self-satisfied smirk. He’s lucky Shiro doesn’t kick his ass out and make him walk home for a stunt like that. His abuse of power tonight is too risky to ignore. It’s something Shiro needed to address sooner rather than later, lest the others bring it to attention and humiliate him.

But now wasn't the time. 

“How’s Thace?” He asked gruffly.

Keith distributed his weight back so he could find his way into the passenger seat and let Shiro fix himself. “Last I heard, their ETA was thirty minutes out.” 

Shiro shoved the key into the ignition and frowned. “When was that?” 

“Thirty minutes ago.” 

The drying mess in both their pants is enough to have Shiro pushing ninety on the freeway. That and the looming threat of his best soldier being in critical, but the irritated look of discomfort that plagues Keith’s face quenches Shiro’s nagging desire to berate him. For now. Because Shiro and Keith enter a house full of silent chaos.

Kolivan must’ve called clean-up the second they carried Thace through the back doors. There's a trio of white clad body suits tip toeing around wiping up a smeared trail of blood here, spatter on the wall there. They acknowledge his and Keith's presence with a quick tilt of their heads as one points, down the hall that way, and continues to spray a putrid smelling cleaner along the hardwood.

The med-room is an explosion of panic. Ulaz is trying his best to see how much morphine he’s injecting into a syringe, but the tears gather faster than he can wipe at them and soon, he’s having to start over with a rush of _dammit_ , _dammit_ , _dammit_. 

Kolivan has to take over. 

“What are we looking at?” Shiro asked, rolling up the sleeves of his arms and undoing his belt. 

Thace grimaced from his spot on the med-table when Shiro spoke. He inhaled deeply through his nose, dribbled a bit on the exhale and rose up when Kolivan inserted the needle into his inner arm. “Two of them,” he ground out. “One male; big guy. The other, female. She jacked my exchange-- _motherfucker_!” 

“How much?”

Ulaz looked up then, a heated glare boring into Keith as he struggled to keep Thace from thrashing too much. “Do we have to do this _now_!” He hissed. 

"It's fine," Thace huffed in reassurance. The man winced at the prodding fingers on his shoulder; yelled into the empty space off to his right when they hit open flesh. “Two million,” he answered. “Two million. They came out of nowhere, sir- _ah!_ " 

That's all he needed. Shiro could care less about the money. He’s more concerned about the weeping bullet wound set deep in his soldier's body. If the bullet hadn't come out, then they were gonna have to go in.

There's really no way he can further interrogate Thace. He's already weak enough as it is and Keith's sure to trigger Ulaz into having some sort of mental breakdown if they continued questioning. If Thace were on his deathbed? Then, yes, Shiro would milk the man of as much information before saying his goodbyes and leaving. But what's the point in doing that if Thace would be awake come morning?

“You did well,” Shiro affirmed, stepping back and murmuring a quick, “Keith.”

Keith stepped forward and took the belt from Shiro’s open hands. He folded the leather once, then twice, before holding it to Thace’s lips and saying, “ _Bite_.” 

Thace does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I battled with myself for a few nights trying to decide if I wanted to show more Lance, or maybe give more Shiro and Keith. As you can see, I delved into Shiro and Keith without restraint! Something I wanted to keep in mind is that Shiro is still a hardcore Mafia head. Lance isn't exempt from provoking his inner demons but I think that's what makes their relationship dangerously attractive. Like, Shiro would never hurt Lance, but as you can see, if tested, Shiro can get rough. And Keith is really on one. I want to see more of his thoughts in the chapters to come but I figured it'd be interesting to see him set Shiro off using Lance as a trigger. I don't know, I'm just giving you guys my mind, hehe. I hope you liked it!.


	8. Growing Pains

We interrupt this program to bring you breaking news! 

Lance was getting yelled at by his boss. 

Again.

It’s the same old, same old, really. Lance clocked in twenty minutes late, took whatever leftover coffee Allura had stashed on her desk, and made sure to give Hunk a quick hug before Iverson spotted him through the windows of his office and barked his last name for the world to hear. 

“McClain!” He bellowed.

Windows rattle, people flinch, and Briel from Sports must have some sort of PTSD flashback because he screams and pushes at a phantom memory for a good ten seconds until Liz slaps him back to sanity. Iverson gave the man a concerned look of bewilderment before drawing in a quick breath and finding Lance’s eyes in the sea of turned heads.

“My office,” he calls, and if that wasn’t authoritative enough, adds, “ _Now_.”

It’s a suicide mission. There’s no way Lance can discreetly get Hunk’s judgment of Iverson’s mood today without his boss steaming from the ears and personally hunting his ass down. And even _if_ he had the time to huddle up and evaluate his death sentence, all he get’s is a concerned glance from Allura and a helpless gape from Hunk who lost interest in his little predicament the second Briel had his little meltdown.

Nobody really knew what Iverson had done to the guy, but Lance didn’t want to be the next one that found out.

“What is this?”

Iverson pointed and Lance followed the digit to see the thicker-than-last-week’s file resting flat against the wood. He quickly noted the greasy fingerprint left by his boss and promptly looked up just to make sure Iverson wasn’t screwing with him. 

“That,” Lance swallows, “Is my end of the week report?”

He phrases it like a question just to be on the safe side as Iverson flicked the file open and ruffled the papers. Four, to be exact. Three more than he’d turned in last week, which was impressive considering his lack of material and time crunch. But the deepening scowl on his boss's face tells him he’s not making a good impression. 

Far from it, actually. 

“I’m not stupid,” Iverson retorted. “I’m talking about _this_.” 

And _this,_ so happened to be the lone document Lance had kept separated from his report. He felt the humidity of the room increase tenfold and he tugged at his sweater subconsciously; felt conscious in the way Iverson watched him do so.

It’s a proposition. He tells Iverson this exactly as the man snatched up the sheet and held it against the light in some cruel show of intimidation. It certainly _works_ because it makes Lance duck down in his chair as if his size had something to do with how this conversation was going. 

“I understand what is expected of me for this assignment,” Lance laid out carefully. He tried to look at Iverson like an adult; failed, and found the lampshade instead. “To ask you for more time is-”

“Pushing it, McClain.”

Lance didn’t back down. “But I need it,” he urged. “I don’t know what you got out of my report today but I sure as hell can already see that this is a two month assignment. And that’s even if I’m lucky, sir.”

“You’re asking for another extension?” Iverson scoffed. “You said you could handle this case.” 

“I can.” 

Iverson all but shoved the document into Lance’s chest. “ _This_!” He snarled, “ _This_ isn’t showing me you can handle it. A month. I gave you a month-”

“On a project that even your best journalist couldn’t finish if you gave them a _year_!” Lance picked up the file and waved it in the air incrediously. “Sir, you’ve seen how deep this goes.”

“I have,” Iverson agreed on a growl. “So how are _you_ any different from the next guy that comes along?”

“They _like_ me.”

Iverson let his mouth snap closed as Lance laid out the keywords needed to keep this assignment. His _job_. There’s no reason to repeat himself, and as stupid as it sounds, Iverson would understand the weight of what's been said.

Just because people were adaptable didn’t mean they liked change. So if Iverson wanted to cut him out of the picture, jam in some new guy to fill his shoes, then there was no doubt in his mind that Takashi and Keith would go running for the hills. 

“They like me,” Lance stressed. “You take me off this case, you don’t give me more _time_ , and you’ll lose a diamond in the rough. I’m telling you, sir. You’re gonna want this story.”

Iverson looked him square in the eye, down at the flimsy document, then back to him before swearing and wiping a hand down his greasy face. It’s an obvious win, and Lance feels the release of tension in his muscles as his boss takes the proposition without further complaint and stores it on file.

"Tell me something good then, McClain."

Lance beamed in response.

Kogane lying to him about his identity was probably his most vital piece of information and he made sure to shield it from any outside bias before consulting with Iverson. Forget the shirt, forget the kiss, the rest of his Thursday night was spent pacing and mumbling and watering down his conversation with Kogane and Shirogane to one _final_ conclusion.

A test. 

“A test?”

Lance nodded and tilted his hands back and forth quickly. He hadn’t been sure before, only because Keith had given him such straightforward answers in the bathroom. And from the time it took him to answer, to the way his eyes moved about when he did so, Lance hadn’t been able to pick out any odd physical behavior that could be identified as the man lying. Then Shiro went and hit him with that pretty solid excuse of paranoia and the not so solid excuse of Keith actually _liking_ him.

But Iverson agrees that going to such lengths just to confirm the Cuban’s identity is odd behavior, even for a guy that worried about the integrity of his company. There was no justifiable reason for the businessman to act the way he had when not only he, but Takashi as well, had every available resource to look into Lance’s history. A quick phonecall to the company would’ve cleared that up real quick.

“But he fucked up,” Lance marveled. “He got hasty and asked about Matt.”

“He asked about the Holt boy?”

Lance pointed to where he highlighted said information in his report and wondered, briefly, if Iverson had even read it. “Off record, but still,” he explained. “He wanted to see my reaction. He watched my eyes.”

“Son of a bitch.” Iverson mused as he tilted further back in his chair. There was a twinkle of interest in his boss's gaze that had Lance practically vibrating in his seat. Sure, Iverson could be a real asshole, but he was head of the company for a reason. Investigative journalism was one of his strongest fields and to have a second opinion was safer than having no opinion.

And Lance had been right.

Iverson rubbed his chin. “The interview,” he questioned. 

Lance nodded and pointed to the second section he highlighted. “Tomorrow evening,” he sighed. “Considering they’re cautious, I’m not sure what questions they’ll be willing to answer and ones they’ll skip. And at this point, I can’t ask about Matt outright without screwing myself.”

“Or them.”

Lance chokes on his humiliation as Iverson cackled; head thrown back and hand smacking the desk because even though he tried to gloss over Kogane’s, _um_ , advancements the previous night, he wanted to make sure he avoided possible conflict of interest _before_ continuing his assignment. 

Apparently his sexuality was funny to his boss.

“It’s good,” Iverson manages after pulling himself together. Then, serious this time, he adds, “It’s a start. I’ll see what I can do about that extension but I want a report on the interview come Monday morning. Clear?”

Lance nodded, “Crystal,” before collecting his report and shuffling out of the stuffy office; Iversons remaining snorts trailing behind.

And there's still a lot of prepping that needs to be done before the upcoming interview, but he takes the day as an early victory and feels a weight lifted from his shoulders.

Hunk and Allura are coincidentally taking a water break at the same time and Lance sees the way they beckon him like school girls when he emerges from hell. They wave, _come_ _on_ _man_ , just as his phone vibrates and he takes a second to stop and check the white notification that pops up on screen. The thought of it being Takashi to reschedule or cancel the interview has his heart dropping-scratch that- _racing_ when his eyes skim over the short message. 

 **Pidgeon: 10:59** **AM**

_611 5th Ave. Pls hury._

 

 ***

 

Lance hated horror movies. 

Something about sitting for a long period of time and purposefully torturing himself with jump scares and disturbing images never really appealed to him. Most of the time, he’d just spend the miserable hour and a half gesturing like mad because _is this bitch really about to go towards the crying demon_?

Yeah. Lance was more of a suspense kind of guy. 

At least, he thought he was until whatever shitty prank Pidge was pulling on him had him rearing for a brotherly smack down in Matt's absence. Because for a seventeen year old girl, she obviously couldn’t comprehend the idea of picking up the phone and _calling_ Lance if she wanted to talk. Instead, she’d gone the whole ambiguous texting route, and had him out of his mind with all sorts of emotions. Fear, anxiety.

 _Anger_.

“Katie!” 

Lance did a half-assed once over to make sure he wasn’t about to get hit by a car before jogging across the street. The younger Holt didn’t slow in the pace she'd set and the obvious bout of nerves she had going on was visible in the panicked sweat glossing her skin. 

Lance threw his arms out in confusion. “What’s going on?” He questioned; looking her up and down and frowning. “And what’s with the outfit?” 

Katie’s hand shot out and hooked around his elbow before he could get another word in and, for a tiny gremlin of a girl, she was surprisingly strong. She yanked him against her side and easily fell back into the half-jog she had going on when he had advanced on her. It’s enough to have Lance winded, if only slightly. 

“Hey,” Lance whined. “What’s-”

Katie cut him off with a tight lipped look. “I need you to hear me out, okay?” She pleaded. “Withhold all judgement until I can explain.”

And yeah, Lance’s first thought is that she robbed a store. The black hoodie and matching pants are pretty spot on for such an activity, and the way she’s hunching into herself like she’s got contraband under her clothes makes him pale in brewing panic.

Katie must notice his lack of color because she immediately adjusts her glasses to get a better look at him. “I didn’t kill anybody,” she reassured hastily.

And _duh_. Nobody walked away from a murder _that_ clean. But this whole situation is still suspicious. Even for him. 

“Where did you park?”

Lance tugged Katie to a rough halt and turned the smaller girl so she was facing him head on. This close, Lance can see the bruising beneath her eyes; the skin abused from a lack of sleep. 

It’s all the more reason Lance should take the girl home. Or to a hospital, what with the way she was shaking.

“Katie," he says slowly. "What's going on?”

The teens glasses fogged up on an exhale and she wiped at them quickly. “I’ll tell you when we find the car,” she said, yanking him in any direction _but_ the one from which they came. It’s raising all sorts of red flags in his mind and the responsible adult in him tells him he needs to take her...somewhere.

The Lance in him says there’s more to this than meets the eye. 

Reference there for anyone who noticed. 

“You’re not stepping foot in my car until you tell me why you’re acting like a freak.” Lance held her still again. “We can wait here all day,” he warned, and just like he knew she would, Katie gives up. 

Her brown eyes flickered erratically before she pulled Lance in close. A quick tug of his collar that had him eye level and only _slightly_ intimidated. “Fine,” she relented. “I may or may not have gotten into something with that shitty detective.”

“You mean...” Lance made some sort of hand movement that had the girl nodded in quick agreement.

“Yes,” she stressed with a tug of his arm. “And he may or may not be looking for me so we need to _go_ -” 

Lance was about to calm Katie in her frantic attack to move him only to be stopped by a low whistle that catches the shell of his ear and whizzes by fast enough to stir a few locks of hair.

Katie tensed beside him, eyes widened to an almost comical width before Lance caught sight of the charging duo moving straight for them. 

“Son of a-”

“Just run!” Katie shouted. 

Lance reached out and snatched the hand still attached to his elbow in quick succession. If there was one thing he was good at, it was running from people he didn’t want to be caught by. He’s had his practice with Iverson, and Katie was going to see just how prepared he was fleeing from...whoever she’d pissed off this morning. 

Another tease of wind zips past his face and he’s quick to shield the young girl from whatever it was they were being assaulted with. If these two were cops, and depending on if Katie’s story was true, then for them to immediately go for stun pellets meant she had something she wasn’t supposed to have. 

Drugs?

No, Katie would know better. The girl had no reason to put herself in the same situation as Matt, not when she knew the consequences. 

Then _what_?

“Right,” Lance huffed; choked on his spit and managed to repeat himself. “Right, Katie.” 

The girl did as she was told and veered a sharp right into a more crowded part of the street. Between his nimble body and her short frame, it was easy to lose themselves in the startled crowd as the rugged suit clad men struggle with their bulk. 

It’s just like Takashi the previous night, and it’s with a twisted form of nostalgia that Lance let’s out a nervous laugh and urges Katie to speed up when they near the parking garage. 

An Indian man cozied in the safety of his box looked up from his phone as they sprinted past his kiosk. His startled shout had Katie flipping him the bird and Lance struggled to find the air to scold her for doing so as they pushed against the incline of the floor level. With the head start they had, there would be no issue making it to the car in time before their stalkers caught up to them.

Can he get a #blessed?

“Start it up!” Katie ordered as the lights blinked in welcome. 

Lance couldn’t help his rising hysteria and snapped back, “I know what to do,” while the teen slapped some black cloth along the length of his license plate. He wants to ask her if she prepared this before hand. If she knew he would come running the second she snapped her little fingers and gladly engage in whatever criminal act she’d gotten herself in.

But as soon as she’s buckled in, because safety first, kids, Lance throws his car in reverse and squeals down the ramp with a death grip on the steering wheel. 

The man in his kiosk throws his arms around, you disrespect my garage, blah, blah, and gladly let’s them through just as a two pairs of hands slam against his back window

Fuck this. 

Fuck those guys. 

Fuck today.

Katie sinks back into the now wet leather of his seat, all thanks to her, and huffs out a sigh of relief that Lance in no way was ready to do himself. Not after they just played some bootleg role in a double agent film where he actually got shot at. That wasn’t what he intended when he gave her his card.

“You need,” he flails, “To _talk_ to me, Katie!” Lance took his eyes off the road and pointed a trembling finger at the girl. “What the hell was that! What did you make me do cuz I swear if this get’s out-”

“It won’t get out!” Katie yelled back. “I had it all under control.”

Lance spazzed his hand and ran a red. “ _Control?_ ” He screeched. “You call that _control?_ ”

Katie grunted in response and crossed her arms in passive brooding. Whatever was under her coat crinkled with the movement and Lance eyed the thin bulge of material wearily. 

“Explain yourself.”

The girl’s jaw works, contemplation makes her fists ball, and when Lance slams on his brakes harder than necessary, the jolt has her glaring up at him with tears in her eyes. 

“ _They said it was time to start thinking about funeral arrangements!_ ”

. . .

And, oh.

. . .

Oh, fuck. 

Like a rubber band, Lance snaps loose and feels his energy shiver out in the dampness of his jacket. He reached out to flick his windshield wipers on and stared at the glare of the traffic light as cars droned past and the heavy pellets of rain broke into nothing but a drizzle. 

Beside him, barely two feet apart, Katie shivers in the weight of her sweatshirt as she tries to hide her tears and swallow the sobs because now that the words are out there, it just makes them more true. 

Lance wasn’t a monster. If what she needed was a brotherly figure right now, than Lance would gladly fill that emptiness, if only for a little bit. So he does what any brother would do when his sister was upset. 

He takes her to get food.

It’s nothing special, really. Just the Ihop on 126th that ran twenty-four hours and accepted all walks of life as long as you had a little bit of cash and good spirit. It wasn’t the _most_ updated restaurant, but the pancake stools and flickering jukebox held a certain charm to them that visibly relaxed the stressed teen and had her looking less angsty.

So far so good.

“Order whatever you want,” Lance said flippantly, gazing over the laminated menu and pointing to their onion ring appetizer with a grin. “What about this?”

Katie peeked at him through her curtain of bangs and shifted a bit; unsure. Lance doesn’t mind. He’s got a personality that could talk for two as the waiter wandered over and took down the list that poured from Lance’s mouth. 

A chocolate milkshake for Katie, coffee for him, and the house special to start while they wait on the onion rings.

And the temptation of a sugar high must be too good to pass up, because the teen wiggles her way out of her damp hoodie and scoots to the edge of her booth to suck the straw between her lips. Lance is fine just watching in fond amusement as the girl gulped down half of it and leaned back to sigh her content.

She looks better. 

Less distraught. 

And as much as Lance would love for her to stay like that, there’s no sugar coating what just happened. He needed an explanation and he needed one now.

Thankfully, Katie beats him there before he has to prod. 

“I didn’t want to get you involved but,” she flicks at the table napkin and swallows. “You’re the only one that will listen to me.”

Lance meets her brown gaze with an open expression and ridicule void from his...everything. At no point will he shoot her down or tell her that what she did was crazy. That much was obvious, there was no point stating it aloud.

But he can also see that she’s battling with herself, wondering if trusting Lance is as good an idea as she thought before all this. 

It must be because without further hesitation, she grabs whatever she’d been hiding this whole time and slides it across the table for Lance’s privy eyes.

It’s nothing but a thin file. The same kind he’d given to Iverson a few hours prior, but Katie urges him on with a quick tilt of her head and watches as he fingers the folds carefully. 

“The grief counselor said it’s time we consider the possibility of Matt not coming home,” Katie starts quietly. “They had us walk through a fucking casket shop and I just-” 

The waiter sets down Lance’s coffee and has the decency to see they’re in the middle of something. Katie keeps her head turned off to the side so her face is hidden, and Lance holds the folder closed until he knows they’re somewhat private once again.

He glances at Katie to continue before looking back at the document in his hands. 

There's a whispered, “ _Fuck_ ,” as she tries to find her voice. And then, "I didn’t know what else to do,” she croaked. “I’ve done search groups, given statements to police, put up fliers, filed missing persons report after missing persons report,” the table rattles and Lance looks up to see she’s crying again, hands wound tight in her hair. “And that _bastard_ of a detective doesn’t do shit. _No_ _one_  is doing anything, Lance. And I’m not burying my brother. I’m not. He’s alive-”

“Hey-"

“He’s alive, Lance,” she says wetly. “I know he is. I just had to do something.”

Lance held up a hand with a stern, “Katie,” that prompted the girl to glare at him through her tears. 

“It’s Pidge," she mutters. “Only people I hate call me Katie.”

Lance raised a brow and tried for a confused smile that Pidge caught with a frown. “Your mom calls you Katie,” he pointed out.

Pidge doesn’t even flinch. “And?”

“Never-mind,” Lance flushed. He goes back to skimming over the file in his hands and starts pointing out lines of information that click with him. “This is-”

“The department database,” Pidge provides. She blows her nose into his napkin and kindly gives it back to him just in time for the waiter to bring her plate of food and skitter back into the kitchen. Lance would ask about the onion rings, but a logged footnote has him sitting up at attention.

 

**_November 5th, 2017. 1:32 AM._ **

_Override code: Alpha-Niner-Panama-Black. Orders to dismiss all outside interference regarding Holt are to be documented, reported, and promptly terminated. All outside investigation is to be terminated under system ALARG. All current evidence is to be shelved/or terminated under superior supervision and instruction. Case report: HIATUS._

 

A shot of energy pierced Lance’s chest and had him huffing along the file in shock. One look at Pidge told him all he needed to know because this? This wasn’t doctored. It was as real as it got. 

“Where did you,” Lance shook his head and held up the file. “ _How_ did you get this. Pidge, this is-”

“Proof?”

Lance felt he might explode. “This is more than _proof_ , Pidge. This is hardcore evidence. A story of it’s own. It’s manipulation of the Justice System in ways people have never seen before. It’s-”

“Not why I took it.” 

Lance looked up and found Pidge studying him quietly. The smile fell from his lips, and she slowly reached out to pull the file back into the safety of her arms like he’d done so many times before with Iverson. He’s missing something, and it’s like staring into a mirror. If he were a seventeen year old genius.

“You’re investigating the VCC for your article, right?” Lance nodded. “Then you could use this to help find my brother.”

And that’s-That’s the thing. 

Investigative journalism didn’t make him a detective. He didn’t spend his days trying to solve murders or search for the next serial rapist, his job was to investigate the crimes and relay it to the public. Get down and dirty with the gripping gore people wanted to read about and gossip over coffee the next morning.

His job was to shadow the hard workers and put their lives to paper.

Which is why it breaks his heart when he has to tell her that, “I’m not a detective, Pidge. I just write the stories.”

And Pidge just stared at him, blinked once, twice, before holding up the file and jamming it close to his face. “You think I want a detective?” She hissed. “Lance, you just read that a detective, a guy in charge of searching for my _brother_ , is doing jack shit to find him. The _department_ , is doing jack shit. If I wanted a detective, I would've buried an empty casket the second they told me to.” 

The tears are back, and Lance is gentle when he takes Pidge’s wrist in hand and coed his understanding until she'd composed herself enough to talk without hiccuping on a sob.

“I can’t do this alone, Lance,” she whispered. “I’ve been trying and I’m getting nowhere. Everyone thinks I’m crazy.”

“I don’t,” Lance insisted quietly. “I swear I don’t, Pidge. This is just so-”

“Fucked up?”

They laugh. Pidge wipes her nose and tries to smile, although it comes out pained. He’s not even aware he’s promising her his help until he sees the way she brightens, the way her eyes shine with hope and her smile comes to life.

It’s a promise he can see himself breaking sometime in the future. Not because he didn’t try, _god_ he would try, but because Takashi and Kogane probably wouldn’t give him more then enough to write a story on Matt before turning him away. The older Holt had disappeared for a reason. And if the Police Department was working to keep him missing, then what chance did a lonely journalist from Varadero stand in finding more evidence than he’d been given?

A slim chance. 

A very slim chance. 

He would need a miracle.

“Finish your milkshake.” Lance sighed against his palm, taking comfort in the way the girl listened and enjoyed the rest of her drink. She had the heart of a lion, that was for sure. And if she believed that Matt was still alive, then you're damn right Lance would believe it too.

He’d channel that drive into every interaction he had with Shirogane and Kogane, come hell or high water. Pidge was his spark to a dying flame that fulfilled what he set out to do when he was first assigned this case.

Finally prove himself and show that he wasn’t a failure. 

Give Iverson the best damn story of the century and solve one of the most twisted cases he’d ever come across. 

“Is that a hickey?” 

Lance sputtered into his mug and spewed steaming coffee all over their passing waiter. The mans screech of horror was nothing compared to Pidge's genuine snort of laughter and Lance immediately broke into a frantic string of apologies as he fumbled for a napkin.

We now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update! Over a week is pushing it for me so I'm sorry I didn't get the chapter up until now. I was struggling to put what I had in my head into writing but I'm really happy with the progress of this story. For one, bringing Pidge back was probably the best part of this chapter. It kind of hurt writing her pain and grief but I was a bit proud incorporating parallels from the show (Her tech snoopery when she was looking for Matt). She's still my tiny genius so I was rooting for her this entire chapter. Some of you were also looking forward to seeing her again so I hope I did her justice.  
> Next up is the interview! With Lance trying to be professional and finding more things to be suspicious about, there's so much that could unfold between him and Keith and Shiro. Hehe.  
> Thank you all for the comments and kudos. You guys are amazing!


	9. Ready, Set

If Lance was Peter Parker, then Hunk was his Harry Osborn. His Ned Leeds. The wind beneath his poorly developed wings. Take a moment to think of any other cheesy comparison and that’s what they were.

Best friends.

Hunk had been too good a guy to pass up in college. The warmth of his overall aura was as enticing as it was comforting, and although the large man had a tendency to let his anxiety hold him back, Lance’s brash and outgoing personality was all Hunk needed to come out of his shell a little bit. 

He was amiable, intelligent, _and_ compassionate. So much so, that Lance never once thought of severing their relationship after graduation and was beyond happy when he landed his job in the Garrison.

What Lance was trying to get at in his admiration was the fact Hunk was a great guy. A brother, if you would. He was reliable, a great coworker, he was even-

“You look like shit.” 

An asshole. 

Weren’t they all?

“I _feel_ like shit,” Lance muttered as his dug the heels of his palms deep into his sockets. He kept hoping the action would kick his circulation into high gear and soften the dark bags under his eyes, but six attempts later and he still looked sickly. “Do you see my skin?” 

Hunk nodded and brought the rim of his mug to his lips slowly, a bewildered, “It’s a crisis,” slipping out before impact. 

And Lance nodded in incredulous agreement because it _was_ a crisis. He looked hideous. 

“What happened to getting a full eight hours?” Hunk questioned after breaking away from his prior engagement. The froth of his latte lined his upper lip in a mock mustache and Lance absentmindedly grabbed a napkin to right the messy appearance, a gentle, “Thank you,” muffled by the paper before Lance crumpled it and sat back with a frown. 

“Pidge,” Lance said. “ _Pidge_ happened.” 

“The Holt girl?” Hunk pitched high. “The _gremlin?_ ”

Yes, and yes. 

Lance wasn’t some eighty year old man that couldn’t handle a little excitement in his life. He’d done more than his share of all-nighters and late outings that led him to some vibrant bar or another. All of which ended with Hunk and him hunkered down at a dingy gas station grumbling about age limit this, identification that. 

The point was, Lance was an energetic twenty-one year old with good stamina and a good enough thirst for adrenaline to keep his life from getting too bland. 

Pidge’s life, however, had the heat of a fucking habanero and had Lance committing felonies, getting shot at, and assaulting poor waiters all in the span of three hours. 

“Wait, wait, wait.” Hunk waved a hand about in earnest, stopping Lance mid spread of cream cheese. “You got _shot_ at? Like, by a _gun_?” 

Lance blinked for dramatic effect before giving a slight jerk of his head, _yes_ , and finishing the half moon of cheese he’d created. “I mean, it wasn’t a _gun_ , gun. But it was a pellet gun.”

Hunk continued to stare and Lance tried to _ignore_ Hunk’s staring as he looked about the small cafe in short-lived nostalgia. 

True to his word, Lance had brought Hunk to the hole in the wall coffee shop where he’d first met Takashi. He finds humor in the visit because, despite the nagging anxiety of his impending interview, the triggered nerves he’d  felt in Shiro’s presence were null and void sitting across from Hunk. Today, he could breathe. Even notices the string lights lining the walls instead of the gray of his counterparts eyes. Realizes, oddly enough, that he’d been hyper-focused on Takashi during their entire meeting. 

 _Huh_. 

“Don’t you think you’ve taken this too far?” Hunk inquired quietly. 

The concern in his tone makes Lance retreat from his thoughts and focus in on where his friend sat hunched around a mug of tea. He looked just as comically large in the cafe chairs as Takashi had. 

“How far is too far?” Lance finally asked in return. 

Because yes, getting chased by crooked cops wasn’t necessarily in the job description but he had an assignment to do. Promises he’d made. Lance was willing to do anything at this point to make sure he tried his damn hardest to find out Matt’s location and at the very least, give Pidge the closure she deserved. 

If that meant involving himself with possible kidnappers and/or murderers, then so be it. 

“Look,” Hunk started, a heavy sigh ruffling their napkins. “As your acting editor, I just want to make sure that whatever you’re doing is within our legal boundaries.” Lance’s lips parted in response; closed when Hunk gave him a look. “As your _friend_ ,” he stressed. “I want to make sure you’re keeping safe.” 

Did Lance mention Hunk was caring?

He get’s it, he does. He took a class on the dangers of reporting, and if he were to go down the checklist of what it was to run away from? Kogane and Shirogane would be right at the top, under, minors stealing from private investigators in broad daylight. 

“I’m not doing anything illegal.” 

Hunk raised a brow. “Technically?” 

And Lance fired back with, “I haven’t been caught yet, have I?” 

They both laugh; watch the few remaining shop occupants bundle up into the night. The city had fallen under a light drizzle in a matter of only minutes and Lance found himself grateful for the jacket he remembered to bring.

That and the fact Hunk was his current chauffeur.

Speaking of-

“What’s Shay like?”

Hunk sputtered, choked on his maple bar and slammed a fist to his sternum a few times to dislodge the chunk of pastry from his esophagus. Lance hoped, once his friend could breathe, that the lighthearted conversation would keep him distracted enough to ignore the growing unease of what was to come in another...thirty minutes. 

Took solace in the way Hunk blushed, covered his mouth a bit and raised a shoulder to his ear in a bashful shrug. “She’s great,” he admitted. “Smart.” 

“Yeah?” 

Hunk nodded, wriggled the sleeve of his shirt up around the wrist to display the small cord of wire wrapped around what looked like a yellow stone. Not even the size of Lance’s thumb. 

He quirks a brow and sees the way Hunk’s eyes brighten like he thought he’d never ask. 

“She’s got this cool thing for rocks,” he gushed, smiling like an idiot. “Like chakra stones? Or something like that. She made this out of yellow quartz, see?” 

Lance sees. He also observes the way Hunk melts along the edges and grows pinker the more he talks about the girl Lance not so innocently deceived. He probably won’t get around to meeting her again, at least, not as Hunks best friend, but he’s happy to hear that the larger man had the courage to go after something precious. 

Shay would be good for him. 

“Thanks again for letting me borrow your car,” Hunk added graciously. “I know it was last minute.” 

It’s also the reason they’re at the cafe in the first place. 

Hunk had done him a favor by getting him Shay’s information and he’d also been completely supportive of Lance’s questionable methods during his interaction with said girl. The least he could do was help Hunk out in his time of need. 

Time of need being the flat on his car and the spur of the moment movie date Shay had asked him to sometime that morning. 

A quick phone call and a change of plans later had them only slightly damp from the rain and curled around a hot drink before the real weight of both their future engagements set in. 

 _Ha_. 

“It’s fine,” Lance waved. “I’d rather not have to figure out parking anyway. And I get to spend time with you so...” 

The vibration of Lance’s phone has them both looking down quietly and Lance can feel the flip of his stomach as he dismissed the reminder and started wrapping up the remainder of his bagel in a used napkin. 

“You ready?” Hunk murmured.

No, but he had to be. 

Lance couldn’t stop thinking about Pidge all day. Sure it ended all smiles and heartfelt goodbyes, but Lance knew the dangers of what he’d done seconds after Pidge told him what she’d taken.

If, and he meant _if_ , his assumptions about Shirogane and Kogane’s involvement in Matt’s disappearance were correct, meaning they were the ones in charge of the entire cover up, then it wouldn’t be too far fetched that word had gotten out. That somebody had gotten a good visual of their faces and could pinpoint his identity. _Pidge’s_ , identity. Because stolen records from secure databases? That was big. 

That was a _problem_. 

Lance could very well be walking into a death trap; into a room to be berated, accused, maybe even fired for the way he’d gone about this assignment. And if that were the case? He’d be fucked. He’d be fucked on so many levels. And he wasn’t even thinking about Kogane’s sexually aggressive behavior. 

 _Shit_. 

It’s 7:52 when Hunk sets the parking brake and peers out at the splotchy illumination of the looming building. Lance could sit out and wait a few more minutes, shake himself of the coiling anxiety that knows just where to tighten so he loses his air for a moment. But the longer he procrastinated, the more his confidence would start to crumble.

“I’ve got this.” Lance breathes, gags on it, and tries not to hurl on his shoes. Shay would be sitting here in the next hour or so and that was definitely a turn off. No puking, Lance. Do it for Hunk. 

“I’ve got this,” he repeated.

“You got this,” Hunk reassured. “It’s smooth sailing from here, buddy.” 

Lance nodded and leaned into his friend for a few seconds more, watched the clock hit 7:55, and found it in himself to step out onto the sidewalk.

Smooth sailing. 

A clap of thunder. 

And it’s 8:00. 

 _Showtime_. 

. . .

Bad things happened to good people. That’s just how life worked. 

Be it a single mom getting skipped over for that raise at work, or the struggling college student just trying to make it another year without taking out a third loan. Hell, it could even be that innocent individual plagued with writers block as one week passes, then two, then three. 

So life lesson number two, for those of you counting, was to understand that bad things happened to you no matter what. 

In Lance’s case? 

It’s the doors being locked even though Takashi knew he was coming. 

Go figure. 

“C’mon, c’mon.” Lance cursed and tried to shuffle as close as he could manage against the fogged glass doors. What little coverage he had was proving insufficient as the layers of his rain coat started to grow heavy, then _seep_ , while his fingers shook all over his phone screen. It takes a rather heavy press just to hit _call_  with the few raindrops combatting against the touch sensitivity and Lance whines as the sheets come down in heavier intervals. 

It rings once, twice, _c’mon_ Takashi. Then-

“ _Lance?_ ” 

“Takashi!” Lance huffed into the receiver. No time to chit chat, his dick is numb. “Hey, uh-”

“ _You’re late,_ ” Shiro cuts in. And before Lance can say anything more, adds, “ _Is everything okay?_ ”

Lance made an odd noise as an icy droplet slipped past the barrier of his jacket and caressed the length of his spine in a chill inducing stroke. There’s a distant inquire of his name and Lance grips his phone tighter as his hands really start to lose feeling. 

“Takashi, the doors are locked.” There, straight to the point. And if that wasn’t enough, then a shaky, “I’m getting drenched,” is all it takes to have the end of Takashi’s line clattering dead as a roll of thunder teased it’s presence in the background. If Hunk had stayed a bit longer, maybe they could’ve avoided this, but the front doors being locked was an obstacle he didn’t even think to consider. This was Takashi and Kogane of course so he should’ve guessed. 

A blur of black and white moved beyond the two frosted layers of glass and Lance barely had time to blink the raindrops from his vision before a flash of silver curled around his bicep and tugged him inside in quick succession. One minute he’s freezing his ass off, the next he’s being stripped of his heavy garment and pulled into a cocoon of warmth. 

“I thought I told you to watch the door.” 

Lance blinked, realized that Shiro wasn’t the one talking, or rather, _growling_ at _him_ , but at the taller man shifting in discomfort a safe distance away. The caramel of the man’s eyes, caramel like his skin, flickers off and away before finding them once more and flashing with guilt. 

“I-I’m sorry-”

“It’s okay,” Lance reassured. His teeth don’t chatter like he expects but he’s sure it has something to do with Takashi’s inhuman body heat. Maybe even the thick business jacket that finds it’s way around his shoulders leaving Shiro in nothing but a skin tight turtleneck. 

He’s staring. 

“Thanks for getting me,” Lance says, trying to create some sort of distance between the taller mans figure after catching Takashi’s intense gaze.

He wants to add that he’s sorry for the inconvenience, apologize for the late hour, but he's frozen by a large hand gentle in its travel through the dampness of his hair; a frustrated grunt making him jump a bit.

“I’m sorry I had to, Lance,” Shiro muttered. Then, with his hand at his side once more, he addressed the quiet figure standing off to their right. “Ulaz,” he called. “Take Lance upstairs while I go grab a towel.” 

Ulaz floated over and gave a slight nod of understanding as Shiro relinquished custody and gave Lance a gentle look. 

“Keith’s upstairs waiting,” he says. “You’re more than welcome to start until I get back, okay?”

Lance nodded, watched Shiro leave, and found a thin layer of awkwardness being at Ulaz’s side. He was grateful for the warm jacket, though, and liked the way it emitted a woody fragrance anytime he jostled the material or shifted its weight too much. He’s a weak man, so he tries to be discreet when inhaling at the collar; blushes when he catches Ulaz’s stare just as the elevator doors slide closed. 

He was a professional.

“The Seattle Heat?” 

Lance looked up, “ _Pardon_ ,” and watched Ulaz press a thin finger to the button labeled 49. 

“The Seattle Heat,” Ulaz repeated. “I hear you’re writing an article on construction work?” 

Images of Lance’s last encounter with Kogan flittered into mind, but where Keith had been persistent, Ulaz seemed almost, inquisitive? Merely curious rather than looking to interrogate. It’s his timidness that has Lance cutting off the alarm bells and offering an easy smile of friendliness. 

”My supervisors run an article in the SMT magazines. This years focus was engineering and construction.”

Ulaz pondered, a delicate finger held flush to his lower lip as he nodded to himself and smiled. “I guess you’ve come to the right place, haven’t you?”

Had he?

Lance hopes, if anything, that Ulaz eats the story up like every other subscriber on Lance’s payroll. That the associate will take Lance’s hardwired information and relay it to Takashi or Kogane and further solidify his act, if only a little. Because as it stood, Lance needed whatever good reputation he could get. Especially if they hadn’t gotten wind of his earlier adventures with Pidge. 

He bats away another one of Ulaz’s apologies just as the elevator comes to a smooth halt and deposits them into a short hallway with double doors at it’s end. A few plaques lined the light gray walls, a plant sat dying in the corner to their left, and Lance tensed beneath Takashi’s jacket as the taller man knocked once, then swept the door open without waiting for a response.

Not that he needed one

Keith doesn’t even look up at first. He seems far too invested in the screen in his lap to notice their arrival, but the violet of his eyes eventually flicker, catch on Lance’s own, and grow a shade darker with what Lance thinks is mischief. 

He smirks. 

“Mr. Kogane-”

“Keith will do.” 

Lance sucks in a breath, tries to ignore the shit eating grin on Keith’s face as he wandered forth to shake hands in greeting. “ _Keith_ ,” he ground out, “It’s nice to see you again.” And although the sentiment is stiff, Lance has to make sure he follows protocol. Even sweetens the deal with a gracious, “Thanks again for allowing me to speak with you. I’m sure you’re a bus-” 

“I am,” Keith interrupted.

Lance felt his eye twitch and Keith clicked his laptop shut before meeting the journalists open palm with his own.

The blush is almost immediate; has Lance coughing in order to mask his embarrassment as Keith trailed the pink of his neck and flashed a canine with that crooked smile of his. He doesn’t say anything, but Lance can read between the lines when the handshake turned into nothing more than gentle hand holding and the businessman leaned close. 

“Who are you again?” 

 _This mother_ -

Lance ripped his hand away as Keith let out a snort; contemplates throwing something at him, maybe even slapping him, but knows his outburst is inappropriate enough. So he turns, ready to just wait in the hallway, only for his nose to jam flat into hard muscle and twinge with pain as a hand held him steady. 

“That’s enough, Keith,” a voice rumbled, and Lance vibrated with it as he blinked a cracked eye up at Shiro who gave a weak smile. “Ignore him.” 

Lance nodded and let Shiro pull back to reveal a simple blue towel and a small cup of coffee that looked old and was probably reheated in a hurry. It’s the thought that counts, though, and Lance is more than happy to towel off what remaining dampness plagued his hair before ditching his sweater and rolling his sleeves. 

He catches Takashi’s eye in the process.

“Um." Shiro stuttered. “H-How are you?” 

And besides from Keith’s shit personality, he was great. Tells Shiro this with a smile before adding, “I’m excited,” and getting a snide “Too easily,” in return.

Keith made a face when Lance whirled, ready to verbally berate the smart-ass mullet, only for Shiro to beat him to it with a harsh, “ _Knock it off._ ” 

The words hold, Keith does, and Shiro clears his throat before pressing the metal of his palm to Lance’s shoulder blades and gently guiding him to sit. If Lance focused on his peripheral hard enough, he could see where  Keith was eyeing him curiously.

“So do you need anything? A signature or...” Shiro bit his lower lip and looked around unsure. “Do I just talk?”

There’s a nudge to Lance’s chair and Lance tries his best to ignore the assailant, finds he can’t, and feels the words slipping out before he can swallow them.

“All I need is some on record verbal consent, something your _partner_ here wouldn’t know about, and then we can start the interview.” 

Two could play at this game, asshole. But at least _Lance_ has the decency to flush with embarrassment and look apologetic, Keith just rubs his hands together and grins.

“Now,” he sobers, “I need you both to know that everything from here on out is on record. If there’s something you’d like to keep private, note it during the interview and I will keep it off record.” Keith leaned forward to watch him dig out his recorder, then notepad, and Lance notices the way the mans arms tense with the movement, veins bulging just slightly as he tugged at his sleeves and eyed the list of penned questions. 

His silence must trigger Keith’s intuition because his violet eyes catch his gawk before he has the time look away.

He gulps. “If you decide, although I really hope you don’t, to terminate the interview at any point. We’ll end it here and I won’t ask for another. Fair enough?”

Shiro nodded, Keith cocked his head, and Lance accepted both as a form of agreement before pressing play.

 _Let the games begin._  

The plan is to start the interview off _slowly_. Wants to ensure they have a full grasp of what it is Lance is asking of them so they don’t feel pressured. Because background information was the best way to approach flighty intel; it didn’t pry into personal matters like some topics did, therefor, It wouldn’t tip them off.

“How did you get involved in construction?” 

Easy.

Shiro’s brow furrowed and he glanced at Keith before crossing a leg and humming deep in his throat. “Pure luck,” he says after some thinking. “Getting to where I am now was probably a bit unorthodox, but I’m a good worker. I had the build needed for the more laborious jobs and sort of worked my way up from there.”

Lance scanned down the expanse of Shiro’s shoulders discreetly, taking a moment to appreciate the way the material of his turtle neck clung to his flesh. And the slightest of movements was all Shiro needed to display his physical strength in the way his muscles pulled taut and danced beneath the pale expanse of what little skin Lance could see. The ‘ _r_ ’ in Lance’s ‘ _labour_ ’ skids crooked and he looks up with a slight tinge to his cheeks. 

Keith’s watching him again. 

“You’re allowed to speak as well you know,” Lance informed, swallowing around the dryness of his mouth as addressed the brooding man silent in his stupor. 

A few seconds pass, but eventually, Keith leaned forward with a murmured, “They hired me,” before collapsing back with a huff.

Lance envisions a shitty mic drop and looks back at Shiro who flashed a look of empathy, like this was a regular occurrence; probably was.

“What sort of educational background do you two have?” 

Keith laughs. “Is that important?” 

And Lance bristles, tries to keep Keith from getting under his skin.

But Shiro, mediator as always, holds out a hand to his partner with a sheepish, “Excuse him,” and frowns. “He doesn’t like people knowing he’s a high school _dropout_.” 

“Shiro!” Keith snarled, glaring at Lance he smiled.

“I, however,” Shiro redirected, “Went back to school a few years ago.” 

“Degree?” Lance inquired.

“Engineering and Design.”  

Noted and noted. 

Lance rolls through a few more questions. What inspired you to join the company? How long did it take you to get promoted? What are the positives and negatives, in your opinion, that come with this career path, _blah, blah, blah._ Think of it as a cover. Lance dances his way through standard procedure, asks questions that align with what you’d expect to be asked when pre-teens were interested in your life. And by the time he’s on question thirty-two, he can see the way both men have relaxed into the interaction. The way it’s making it easier for them to answer his questions. And every now and then, Lance will joke around or tease, make Shiro flush a bit with praise as he bounced between the two. Played on their personalities and reminded them he was safe. 

Lance was _safe_. 

Until he wasn’t. 

“A few schools contacted me recently wondering about your internship program?” Lance doesn’t look up from his notes. He searches the random pages absentmindedly to seem nonchalant, as if the thought of his question digging deep wasn’t even a concern. But he sees the way Keith goes rigid. The way Shiro’s expressions grows taut as he slowly pulls himself from the cocoon of homeliness and puts his defenses up carefully. Barbed wire and an electric fence. 

Because it’s dangerous, what Lance has asked, but not completely suicidal. In a few minutes, one or both of them will realize their website still offers the internship application and logic will overpower paranoia. He’s said nothing that could raise alarm so they shouldn’t _act_ like he has. 

What he’s looking for is body language and empty truths. Find the crack in their facade before they found his. 

“Is that still a program you provide? And if it is,” Lance opened a new page and held his pen ready, eyes finding Shiro’s. “Can you tell me about it?” 

And there it is. 

Shiro looked gravely. All previous light drained from his eyes like a thinning watercolor and for a moment, Lance feels a pang of regret. Wants to reach out and take back what he’d said because in a way, he’d actually _hurt_ Takashi. But he can’t. Not with the way Keith was watching him now. 

“We discontinued the program after some close calls with participants,” Shiro said slowly. “We required a parental consent form for participation but there were some accidents that had us worried.” 

Lance scribbled the word ‘ _discontinued_ ’ and ‘ _accidents_ ’ before looking at Keith. “What sort of accidents?” He questioned.

Keith doesn’t want to answer but Lance is looking to him specifically. What he’s done is wedge himself between Shiro’s authority and put Keith on the spot. Their dynamic made them vulnerable to holes which is exactly why Shiro did all the talking when it came to the important questions. 

Keith wasn’t supposed to say anything and it shows. He flounders, just like Lance knew he would.

“Contact with materials. Poles falling, hardhats not staying on.” Keith looked at Shiro who shifted closer and braced his elbows on his knees to try and divert Lance’s attention away. 

“Corporate thought there was too much liability in the program so we ended it last summer.” Shiro rolls a shoulder. “I’m not sure if we’ve updated the website since then. Is that what the schools were referring to?” 

Lance shrugged, tapped the pen to his lower lip and paused. “It could be student experience as well. You offered the program to,” he read over a folded sticky note and drawled, “Twelve students?” 

To which Keith responded with a jolt, like the stress was really starting to get to him. And before Lance can press him any more, Shiro beats him to it with another uneasy laugh. 

“That sounds about right,” he chuckled, then, looking gravely, asks, “Are we almost done?”

“With what?” 

Shiro looked at his notepad in disdain. “Your questions. I’m sure you’ll be able to get more information from our workers, right?” 

Possibly, Lance thinks. _Says_ , “If you feel we’ve covered everything you’d want people to know?”

And see that? How he flips the attention around? Gives Shiro the illusion of security because now he has the power to end the interview or continue it? It’s all psychological. A simple move like that could save your ass from termination.

Shiro must like it too because he sank back a little and let out a relieved sigh. “I think you’ve got our life story right there,” he murmured. The scar along the bridge of his nose was tinged pinker than usual and Lance knew now, that he’d been holding his breath. 

“Your life stories are interesting,” Lance says thoughtfully. “I’m sure the article will be a big hit.”

Keith’s interest piques and he leans over to inspect Lance’s book-bag with a gentle flick to it’s zipper. “You think?” 

Lance _knows_. Especially when he uncovers their deepest secrets and exploits them for who they really are. Because as it stood, Lance had a feeling he knew exactly why they didn’t want to evaluate on their internship. Pidge had been right and, excuse him for being a devious little shit, his final blow comes in the form of a simple comment that would have them pissing where they stood if they didn’t have some semblance of self-control.

“I think getting in touch with some of your previous interns will be helpful,” he says flippantly. “Maybe get some quotes, see what their experience was like.” 

And if he did that, whose name do you think would come up on the roster?

Shiro sees where it is he’s fucked up. Either he spilled about Matt now or risked having Lance ‘find’ it later and bring it to their attention. There would be questions as to why he didn’t mention it before, what had happened to the Holt boy, did they know where he was? 

Letting Lance walk away would mean further investigation. _Deeper_ investigation. He’s forcing Shiro to play a card he had no intentions of showing in the first place.

And what did animals do when they were cornered?

Lance doesn’t necessarily _see_ where Keith reaches for him but he does _feel_ where Shiro’s arm clamps tight by his shoulder and confines him to the chair with a deep set frown. His gray eyes darken with contemplation, thundering like the clouds outside, and Lance feels a shiver work down his spine as he falls victim to a merciless gaze he thought he’d only ever see in nightmares. 

“Out of respect for one of our interns,” Shiro murmured quietly, “I’d ask that you please leave the Holt family alone.” 

Lance gulps. Can see where Keith had herded close and Shiro gives him a look to _back off_ as he caged the Cuban in with a solid arm. It has him trembling, visibly, while the rain slammed against the window and further charged the room with growing tension. 

A weak, “W-Why,” whispered past his lips and Shiro leaned in, leveled with him so their eyes clashed. A storm along the Pacific. 

“Just promise me, Lance,” Shiro pleaded. “ _Promise_.”

Lance didn’t think Shiro was one to ask nicely and knows, deep down, that this was probably a one time thing. Self-preservation speaks for him and he stutters out a shaky, “O-Okay,” before he can stop it.

He just needed Shiro to _move,_ give him some room to curl into himself and avert his gaze. And when he’s given that space, he sinks into the cushions, draws in a shuddering breath and tries to ignore the way Keith watched him from the sidelines, eyes unsure. 

Lance needed to calm down. Get his mind right and ignore the voice in his head that said _you have enough, don’t get greedy_.

“The Holts,” Lance murmured, shaking himself I'm search of a second wind. “ _You_ said a kid went missing.” 

Shiro looked at Keith who looked at Lance, betrayal flickering across his pale features as a hidden conversation raged on silently. Keith could take the fall for that mistake, Lance couldn’t be held accountable for Keith’s slip up so he pushed while there was still an opening. While he still had a shot at anything _Matt_.

“You said a kid went _missing,_ ” Lance repeated, voice stronger. “That wasn’t a joke, was it?”

Shiro’s face darkens with his persistence but Lance can’t stop. He pushes because he knows they know something and Pidge deserved to know that something. He pushes because Pidge was at home watching the minutes tick by and waiting for the day her brother would walk through the front door again. 

He _needed_ to know what happened. Is that close to demanding that of Takashi when life intervenes; _enough_.

A light bulb bursts somewhere off to the left of them and Lance screams, curls back into the cushion as a vibrating drone rode through the office space, _loud_ , _loud_ , and killed the lights completely. 

Silence.

Lance peeked an eye open and saw where Takashi had dropped to a knee, arms protecting his head in a thick cover. He’d ogle but he’s more concerned with the heavy weight currently caving into his chest.

Keith?

“I believe a kiss of gratitude is in order.” 

 _Keith_ , Lance thinks bitterly. 

He shoves at the overbearing mass and feels the vibration of the man’s amusement against the flat of his palms. His struggles do nothing, and it’s of Keith’s own free will that he moves back and looks around the pitch black room, save for the surrounding windows filtering lightening here and there. 

A drained, “Blackout,” rumbled from where Shiro was kneeling and Keith let out a hum of agreement in return.

Lance just needed a moment to...to _swallow_ around the ride of emotions fizzling out between the trio as he moved to create some distance between himself and Keith’s trailing gaze. The intensity of their conversation had leached from his mind and, from the looks of it, the same went for Keith and Shiro much to his silent relief.

Shiro would be put off by his disrespectful persistence but the fact that Keith had been the one to bring Matt up when they first interacted would be a good cover. Keith’s hastiness created a chain reaction that Lance couldn’t be held accountable for and Shiro, who was standing by now, must realize this too because he gives Keith a dark look and is concerned enough to ask if Lance is okay.

Lance is. 

Only until he managed to peek out the window and onto the bare streets flooding with rainwater. A few passing cars tried to make it without the aid of overhead traffic lights and the pounding downpour made it damn near impossible to even _see_ a street sign from his vantage point. 

Which left him with one raging question.

_How the fuck was he getting home?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is everyone?  
> There’s a lot to say and not enough space to say it. First, I am sorry for the delay. You’ve heard it once, you’ll probably hear it again, but that was horrible on my part. I felt like the stress of school was making it seem like this chapter was an assignment and I hated that. The last thing I wanted was to project my frustration in this chapter so I rode out the back to school work load and got this as a final product  
> Now, a lot happens in this chapter and the chapter to come. For those of you missing a little Hunk, I hope this satisfies your craving because Hunk and Shay are an item, hehe. As for Lance, intelligent as always but lacking in self-preservation. I think his persistence was brave but not entirely smart. He obviously hit a nerve with Shiro and if not for the freak storm, who knows what would’ve happened.  
> Oh yeah, the storm. Seems like they’re gonna be stuck here a while, hmm? Hmmmmm?  
> Thank you all for your patience! Feel free to yell at me or ask questions if you have them!


	10. Go

They're not getting home.

Let’s just get that out of the way right now before the hands started raising in question and his blood pressure reached unsafe levels. 

All of them were to stay put until Shiro could figure out what the hell was going on and who the hell it was he needed to verbally lay into for causing such a mess in the first place.

Because how was he supposed to concern himself with the chaotic weather when Keith had ruined _everything_.

All the time Shiro had spent coordinating with his people; wasted. All those hours making up story-lines and perfecting time-frames; poof.

Gone. 

All because Keith hadn’t been able to follow orders and avoid contact. That’s all he had to do. Let Shiro handle it and for the love of god keep your mouth shut. 

But mistakes had been made long before Shiro could do anything to help it and they had no way of fixing or playing off Keith’s mention of Matt with them so deep in the game. It was too coincidental. Too _critical_. 

And Lance was too smart of an individual to just, sweep that under the rug and label it useless. If he hadn’t known something before, then that was definitely his green light now.

Which is why it doesn’t come as a surprise when the man get’s pushy; get’s desperate. 

Shiro got just as excited when he got his hands on good intel. It was human nature. 

So he gives Lance a pardon. It’s a reluctant pardon, but a pardon nonetheless because Shiro can’t _justify_ his anger. Not when Keith had practically dangled temptation in his face; given him the illusion of a story no one was supposed to even know about.

It threw bias into Shiro’s observation and it threatened the integrity of not only his trust in Lance, but Lance’s trust in _him_.

Patience yields focus. 

Patience yields...

 _Fuck_.

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple for what felt like the umpteenth time and he yanked the gather of his turtle neck up to rid its presence on his skin. Nervous heat had been pouring off him in waves and anger kept the tips of his ears just pink enough for Keith to fall silent half a room away.  

He wants to keep it like that. Wants Keith to sit and reflect and _fear_.

“Sir?” 

Shiro tore his gaze away from the chaos outside and instead, angled his body so that Lance wouldn’t have the ability to hear or read whatever poured from his bitten lips. He had yet to gauge the extent of the man’s perceptiveness and now was not the time to risk it.

“The order I gave to have our intern history removed,” Shiro growled. “What _happened_ to it.”

Kolivan remained silent on the other end of the line save for a few rapid strokes of typing and a muffled comment. Then, “I believe Antok was in charge of fulfilling that order, sir.” 

Keith’s lucky it wasn’t his. 

Either way, Shiro feels a burning laugh lodge deep in his chest as he pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered why he even tried. He hears Lance prompt Keith, a nudging question for the man still as a statue watching his master boil over in a heightening rage. 

Because, yeah. Shiro was pissed. 

 _Livid_. 

“Put him on.” 

There’s yet another stretch of silence quickly filled with the garbled grumbles of Kolivan’s voice, a quiet scuffle of a phone being reluctantly grabbed, and a quick greeting that Shiro rips apart without hesitation. 

“I gave you an order,” he snarled. The phone clatters and Shiro can hear the curse of his soldier as he scrambles to pick up the phone. “Information on our intern students was to be wiped and wiped again after I returned. Was it not?”

Antok’s voice cracked and he cleared it quickly for the few measly words, “It was,” before Shiro slammed a hand flat against the window and listened to the sharp intake on the other end of the line. 

Part of the wall shakes and the background whispers of Lance’s concern cut into panicked little huffs that make Shiro tense in realization, then relax. It was one thing to look frustrated, it was another to take it out in front of business relations. 

In front of _Lance_. 

Patience. 

“Round twenty-four, Antok,” Shiro said tightly. Twenty-four days doing the standard rounds was him being generous, really. And maybe, _maybe_ , once they got out of this mess, Shiro would be nice enough to knock that down to twenty-two days. “Log it,” he continued, “Do it, put Kolivan back on.”

He waits through the shaky exhale and sheepish, “Yes, sir,” before the sound fades out and comes back with muffled interference. Kolivan doesn’t speak at first. If anything, the silence gives Shiro a moment to collect himself, flash Lance a reassuring smile, and remember he had a team for a reason.

Between Kolivan and Thace, he knows things will get done and more. 

“I want the website wiped and back up in twenty-four hours,” Shiro fired off. “I want the intern information page linked and load looped. You should see it but no one should be able to access it.” 

Kolivan grunted over the harsh cacophony of clicking keys and Shiro took a second to glance at where Keith was staring at the carpet, alone. A jolt of panic had him turning completely and if not for the smaller mans quick mouthing of ‘ _bathroom_ ’, he would have bolted in search of the missing reporter immediately. 

There was no telling if Lance would make a run for it or try to snoop around the floor for information. There was also a chance he was calling someone now to share Shiro’s touchiness over Matt. 

But Shiro stayed grounded. If Lance was absent then that gave him a window to work.

“McClain drew information from our website and has the name and contact information of all our interns, Matt included.” Kolivan stopped typing. “I want the names and addresses of each of those students and I need Thace monitoring them immediately. I want to know who he contacts and when he contacts them the second he does. Understood?” 

Kolivan tapped a key, “Understood,” and promptly hung up. 

The call pinged it’s death with three monotone dings and Shiro could feel the rippling anxiety pulse heavier behind him. Keith hadn’t dared to move from his spot on the desk, but the second Shiro stepped towards him, his head snapped up and the hue of his eyes darkened considerably with fear. 

Shiro wouldn’t beat, Keith. No. He wasn’t a savage in that sense. 

Keith had already experienced his fair share of failed attempts to manipulate him through that process. To mold him with lashes, punches, blows to the head and chest; beat him into something obedient and hardworking. It pissed him off is what it did. Angered him to the _point_ of disobedience and turned him into an independent fire that lacked control.  

So how did Shiro take control?

He played on the man’s fear. Used Keith’s need to be needed against him. His desire for purpose. His fear of _abandonment_. 

“I can’t keep doing this with you, Keith,” Shiro sighed, not angry but worn. “I can’t. I keep thinking you’ll learn but you’re not. You aren’t _learning_ , Keith, I-”

“Fucked it up.” Keith slid off the desk and advanced on Shiro with a desperation only a dying man could have. “I fucked up big time, okay? And I’m sorry. You trusted me and-”

“You failed.” 

Shiro isn’t here to be _nice_. He wouldn’t be where he was in life if he was _nice_. So it doesn’t bother him in the least when Keith’s desperation turns to panic, his hands outstretched in burning need. 

“I can fix this,” he tries. “I-I can fix it, Shiro. I’ll watch him. I’ll make sure he stays away.”

“Don’t need it.” Which was true. “I put Thace in charge. _He_  can handle it.” 

“So can I,” Keith spits. 

Shiro walked forward, shoved Keith back into the desk and pointed out the door to where their one chance at playing this safe was now slathered in suspicion. 

“You have yet to show me you can do _anything_ , Keith,” Shiro snarled; grabbed Keith by the neck of his shirt to get it through his head. “Two years together and I’ve spent more time cleaning up after you than I’ve actually seen something worth keeping around. You have made it _glaringly_ obvious that you. Cannot. _Do this!_ ” 

Keith shoved back growling, “I can,” and the places he touch burn. 

Shiro knows Keith is capable. He wouldn’t be his partner if he didn’t see the man’s potential; _had_ seen it in action many times before. But these armature slip ups, these close calls? That wasn’t _Keith_. If Lance had him that skillfully wrapped around his finger, then Shiro needed to take initiative and severe whatever contact he could before things got worse.

“Punish me,” Keith glowers, his eyes matching Shiro’s own fury. “You can punish me, but you’re not benching me on this, Shiro. You’re not.” 

Patience yields focus. 

Shiro breaks away from Keith just as Lance edges back in looking befuddled and slightly frustrated. The light of his phone illuminates just enough of his face to show the flicker of weariness in his blue gaze as he glanced at Keith, then Shiro, then Keith again.

He coughs. “So, Hunk’s safe. But I guess the roads are pretty messy and no can see through the fog, so.” 

“No luck?” 

Lance gives Keith a look, _what can you do_ , and confirms, “No luck,” with an easy half shrug.

In the meantime, all three seem content to wait out the draining tension as Lance inched close and completed their triad formation of unease. Keith is still giving Shiro hard looks, _try me, Shirogane_. And Lance is still glancing between them with a weak smile of, _whose pissed at who? At me?_

The longer this goes on, the worse it’s gonna be for them. 

So Shiro breaks the ice with a gentle sigh and hammers away at his cold exterior to give Lance some space to breathe. It works, of course, because the man goes from having a sheepish curl to his lips to a soft beam of a smile that even coaxes Keith back into his usual brooding. 

It’s a breath of fresh air.

Lance’s usual charm and charisma purged the room of negativity and set a quiet truce that would hopefully hold out until the next round.

 _Hopefully_.

“Since it doesn’t look like we’re getting home anytime soon,” Shiro looked to Lance for physical agreement and smiled when he received a nod for his troubles. “I’m gonna assume we’ll be stuck here the rest of the night.”

Keith huffs. “Great.”

But Lance continued to smile, albeit a bit shaky, as he tightened the cross of his arms and shifted closer to Shiro’s leaning posture. 

At first, Shiro doesn’t think anything of it. Lance didn’t seem the type to hold a grudge even _after_ Shiro basically threatened him and threw a fist at a window, so it makes him somewhat happy to have the man still eager to be around him. Even slides a hip close so their arms are just barely touching and-

Wait.

Shiro looks at Lance then, really _looks_ at him with a rake of his gray eyes and sees the slight blush creep up on the Cuban’s cheeks. He stays silent though, and Shiro realizes that it’s more because he’s trying to hide his violent shivering than it is him being polite. How had Keith not said anything?

“We can’t stay here,” Shiro stated. 

Keith rolled his eyes and snarled, “No shit,” Which Shiro met with a metal hand cuffing at his mullet. A small hum slipped from Lance’s pursed lips soon after, and they both turned to see him suppressing a smile.

Up close, Shiro can see where the skin tinged blue with cold, and Lance laughs again- that’s what it is, it’s a laugh- before losing his composure into a fit of giggles that ward off his chattering only temporarily.

As soon as he stopped, both Shiro and Keith watched as Lance pulled the jacket at his shoulders tighter and fought to clench his teeth.

Shiro knows the damp material is doing very little to preserve Lance’s body heat. Especially with the buildings heaters down and the growing storm lowering the temperature to uncomfortable levels. 

Unbearable if you were sopping wet.

“We can’t stay here,” Shiro repeats. “Lance is freezing, I know for a fact you didn’t eat anything today, Keith. And I, for one, am not sleeping on the floor tonight. Agreed?” 

Lance looked slightly offended and managed to hold down a full body earthquake before stuttering out, “I’m f-f-fine, T-Takashi. R-Really, It’s-” 

“Not all about you, Lance,” Keith snapped. “Besides,”

It was their fault he was wet in the first place, Shiro thinks. 

”I can see your nipples.”

  _Or that._

 

. . .

 

The break room on the thirty-second floor has a stiff love seat that, unbeknownst to their employees, pulled out into a standard twin mattress. Shiro vividly remembered Ulaz collapsing last year with fever and utilizing the small space until Thace could get back from a short run he’d been sent on. 

It’s nothing special.

Not nearly big enough for the three of them to fit comfortably. 

And Lance is the first to come out and say, “This is weird, right?”

Shiro tries to ignore the way Lance’s words tickle his collarbone because, as it stood, there wasn’t much space between them to begin with. Keith had refused to sleep with his back to the door and Lance swore laying face to face with said man was the equivalent to a death sentence. 

Which wasn't too far from the truth now that Keith had a sore jaw.

“Who knows what he’ll do to me in my sleep,” Lance shivered. “I already have nightmares about his mullet.” 

Shiro choked on a laugh and met Keith’s growl with a tight lipped expression that did nothing to hide his amusement. Lance had a way of getting under Keith’s skin and right now? Right now Shiro was even more content to sit back and let his partner take the brunt of the Cuban’s well aimed attitude.

“I can still move to the floor, Takashi,” Lance whispered suddenly. 

Shiro met his blue gaze with a faint blush and shifted a bit to confirm that, yes, he was at the very edge of the mattress and, no, he couldn’t move further away without landing hard on his ass and making a fool of himself. 

But he was starting to think that embarrassment would be easier to live down than being flush with Lance’s warming body. 

“I-It’s fine,” Shiro managed. “Is my arm making it-”

Lance held up a hand that waved closer to Shiro’s face than he must’ve intended because he quickly withdrew and let out a nervous laugh too soft to be anything else. “I don’t mind,” he blushed. “If I’m heavy I can-”

“You’re not,” Shiro blurted. 

And Lance squeaked, “Okay,” before falling silent and ducking his head to hide whatever expression Shiro hadn’t been quick enough to catch. 

Keith shifted, adjusting the rest of his hip and bumping shoulder blades with Lance’s own before grunting a quiet curse and pillowing his head on his arm. It definitely wasn’t the most comfortable sleeping arrangement, especially given the past few hours of confrontation, but Shiro’s concern lay genuine in getting Lance warmed up. 

It was his fault he was cold in the first place. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lance stared; blue eyes bright in the dark as he reached back to where Shiro had balled his fist near his nape.

There’s no sensation of contact but Shiro can see where Lance is tracing the knuckle of his ring finger; where he taps at the dip of his palm.

He hadn’t noticed where he’d been flexing the joints, secretly trying to work the circuits and wires to ward off any stiffening that came with the cooling temperature. And yeah, he produced enough warmth on his own to keep from catching too much of a chill, but the metal had no natural connection with his body.

The longer he went in the cold, the heavier it got.

“Oh,” Lance murmured. He looked careful in his ponder, gentle in his smile as he reached up and waited for permission that Shiro gives with a quick nod. Then Lance raised his head, pillowing it in the crook of Shiro’s shoulder a ways above where metal met flesh, and hooked the rest of Shiro's arm around his own before shifting back. 

It’s either a thoughtful way of keeping Shiro’s arm warm or a sly maneuver to get them borderline cuddling. 

Lance’s grin makes Shiro think it’s the latter, but there’s true concern visible in the tilt of his head and the question of, “Better?” that falls from his lips. It’s the same concern Shiro has had all night between thinking about Matt, arguing with Keith, and trying to figure out who the hell Lance McClain was.

His brain tells him, something nice. That Lance was something _good_.

Shiro clears his throat and lets his fingers curl against Lance’s arm before answering, “Yes,” and watching the smaller man settle happily against him.

Lance was something rare.

Keith can feign sleep but Shiro is smart enough to know his breathing pattern has yet to even out. The inhales aren’t long enough and the twitch of his lashes are faster than Shiro’s used to. 

Lance, however, is out and snoring lightly against his chest not ten minutes after readjusting their sleep positions. His body still shook in short intervals, warmed by Shiro’s own but not yet ready to accept the waft of cool air at his back. And Keith leaned into him at some point in hopes to create a protective barrier, but the attempts were proving futile. 

Lance was still shivering. 

“Hey.” Keith nudged an arm. “Shiro.” 

A broken inhale ruffled the top of Lance’s head as Shiro blinked back into awareness. He’d been dozing for well over an hour and the outside rainfall seemed to have only lessened minutely. 

Keith, though. Keith was looming above them with an arm at Shiro’s shoulder and violet eyes alight with sudden awareness. 

He’s getting ready to sit upright in search of danger when Keith's hand holds him still. 

“Relax,” he reassured. “Everything’s fine.” 

Except it’s not because Shiro was probably about to get the most sleep he’s gotten in a long time and Keith had just interrupted. 

For good reason, though. Because,

“Lance is freezing,” Keith whispered. “You gotta get him off your arm, Takashi.”

One look downward confirmed that, yep, Keith was right. The skin on Lance’s entire body had broken out into goosebumps and the once pink dust of his lips and cheeks had paled further, meaning he was losing more warmth than he was actually conserving. 

Keith nudges him again. “I’m gonna go look for some emergency blankets in the first aid kit, alright? Until then, roll him over and keep him off your arm.”

Easier said than done. 

Shiro took a moment to dislodge his tongue from the roof of his mouth and watched Keith slip off the bed before disappearing out into the hallway in search of the main office. His footsteps don’t stray far, and Lance is still very much asleep when Shiro shakes him gently; just enough to get him aware, not nearly enough to actually wake him. 

“Lance.” His voice grates.

The man's lashes fluttered in response, but neither of them are really putting their heart into consciousness.

“Lance,” Shiro tries again. “Lance, we gotta roll over.”

Hadn't Keith said something about him being a heavy sleeper? Of course,  there’s no way Shiro can actually bring it up in conversation considering the context of that knowledge, but Shiro wasn’t about to shake Lance awake as violently as Keith had described doing so back at his apartment.

Instead, Shiro grips gently at Lance’s waist and pushes to distribute his weight and hopefully roll him just enough to get him off his arm. He should have known the metal would only worsen Lance’s chill. That was something he could’ve helped.

But he can’t help when his hand slips and runs flush with Lance’s hip, fingers digging deep on reflex to catch the momentum of the man’s sprawling legs and twisting core.

A startled, “Ah,” punched from Shiros chest and Lance matched it with his own just, less surprised and more...

_Ah-hem._

Shiro should let go. He’s not sure why he’s still touching Lance like this, especially when the man finds the pressure jarring enough to peek his eyes open and stare at where Shiro had found it in himself to loom. 

To _leer_. 

It has a thousand thoughts breaking the dam of calm in his head and he’s struck by only one that reminds him, _hey dumbass, let go_.

Keith will be back any minute now but Shiro _still_ hasn’t let go. 

Maybe because part of him sees it as an opportunity to punish Keith; as a way to mark his territory and regain dominance and control after everything he'd done. Or he sees it as a way for him to scare Lance off; to get him wary again. 

Deep down, though, Shiro knows he’s just searching for justification. That if he did this, it was him selfishly satisfying the burning urge he hadn't yet quenched since Keith pinned him in the car. 

_His patience can go to hell._

 

. . .

 

Lance doesn’t know when he falls asleep but he does know that waking up was a bad idea. Knows that the second he looks down and sees where Takashi’s hand is, it’ll be over. He won’t be able to look the man in the eye ever again.

Which was contradicting in a sense because all Lance could currently see was the darkening gray of Takashi’s eyes from whatever natural light pooled through the yawning windows. 

The break room. They were in the break room, right. 

But Keith was gone and at some point he’d managed to provoke Takashi into...into...

Touching. They’re touching. 

A thousand images race through Lance’s head with and Takashi is _still_ touching.

He’s not entirely sure where Keith had gone and he’s not sure if it even mattered if Takashi _kept_  touching. 

Holy hell.

Think. Lance needed to think.

Because this could be an opportunity to get closer to the businessman; sleazy as it was. It could even be Shiro’s way of trying to scare him off after being so pushy during the interview. 

But Lance, desperate to find reason, can’t ignore the familiar desire he felt when Kogane had pinned him back in the bathroom, the desire that told him to strap the fuck in and enjoy the ride because when would he ever get a chance like this again?

_Focus, Lance. Fo-_

The click of realization is absolutely jarring. All at once Shiro’s gaze sharpens, Lance’s lips part, and before either of them can pull the fuck out of the emergency brake, Takashi’s mouth is warm and eager against his own. 

He melts. Did so for Keith, does so even faster with Takashi and has no qualms about it as the unfamiliar vibration of a moan shook Lance to his very core.

There were far too many lingering glances and incidents of contact for Lance to object at this point. And when Takashi’s body moved, all power and bulging muscle, like a lion on the prowl, he gracefully pulled himself upright and realigned himself so he would be laying flat against Lance’s own body if not for the support of his arm.

Lance is surprised, to say the least. Not of Shiro's drool worthy bed skill, but with how easy it is for him to grant the man access to, well. _Him_. Keith had needed to work for it; had to take his time coaxing Lance lest he scare him off.

With Shiro, Lance is not only quick to open his mouth in invitation, but also spreads his legs so the man has no issue fitting himself between his quivering thighs and pinning him with his weight. Sends Lance moaning into the feel of it all as Shiro's hand traced gently down the curve of his throat and playfully pressed into the bob of his adam's apple with a curious smirk. 

And he says playfully only because his lashes flutter, and he can tell Takashi is simply testing the waters, seeing what he can and cannot do before really going for it. 

For what? 

“You’ll see.” Takashi huffed, breaking away with a slick _pop_ that had Lance blushing once he could finally breathe.

He wondered what Shiro meant by that; quickly lost interest when a blurred mass of a shadow caught the corner of his eye and had him jolting around Takashi’s hips in panic. 

“Keith!” Shiro barked. “ _Stay_.” 

Lance watched the shadow, _Keith_ , he realized, hold still like an obedient pup and glare onto the mattress where he lay spread as if he'd just insulted his _mother_. Fear begins it's decent through his chest and soon, all the excitement burned from his limbs and had him pale and squirming to create distance so he could think of an excuse. Of an apology. 

He’d gotten out of this mess once before, but that was only because Takashi had been understanding enough to know Keith had instigated. If Kogane wanted him fired, especially after that shit-show of an interview, then he could easily make good on that want right now and-

“Let me touch him.” 

_Forget it._

Lance let out a whine that had Keith taking as many steps as he could before Takashi growled low in warning. And if Lance were more aware, less dazed and confused, then maybe he would have it in him to understand there was more going on than he intentionally thought. 

Takashi pointed,  _sit_ , and sniffed his approval when Keith dropped to his knees at the corner of the mattress without hesitation.

The box-spring squealed beneath the weight and groaned it's burden as Shiro pushed his hips flush against the curve of Lance’s inner thighs and made a home between his open knees with a grin of achievement he hid in the privacy of Lance's throat. Spread his legs further with a flare of innocence that Lance caught streaking along his cheeks and brightening the outline of his scar in arousal.

Lance thinks he should feel some form of humiliation or, at the least, embarrassment. Because even though it’s dark, Keith’s gaze is cutting through the shadows and heavy in it's purpose. He watches Takashi touch and stares at Lance with a burning edge that screams, _that should be me._

But it’s not. And Lance is very aware of this as Shiro, once again, crowds low and pries his lips apart with a vengeful tongue too hot to be of healthy temperature. 

A hand here, a hand there. 

Fingers play at his nape and scratch lines into his lower back. The exploration of touch has his shirt riding up some and when the tips of Shiro’s metal digits count at his ribs, a shiver of cold has his teeth chattering, then biting down into the slick intrusion of his mouth with a jolt. 

His canine punctures, and Takashi retaliates with harsh tug of his hair that has his back bowing and cheeks burning as the kiss deepened; grew _filthy_. Had Lance rolling his hips unconsciously as Shiro fucked deep into his mouth and let the tinge of iron mingle and stain their front teeth a watery red. 

“B-Breathe,” Lance gasped, finally breaking out of Shiro's grip. “I need to--oh fuck.” 

There’s no patience when it comes to Lance’s slacks, which is fine and all considering they're damp anyway, but when the button goes flying and the zipper comes practically undone, he mourns the loss as quickly as he can before the reality of his bare legs set in. 

He’s half naked. 

Would you look at that.

Takashi does. 

“His skin is soft,” Shiro marveled, and the metal fingers at Lance’s ankle hiked his leg high and gave the businessman the ability to nose at the open flesh burning with praise. “Smells good, too,” he murmured. 

Keith's body looked to have convulsed, but Lance couldn't be sure as the nip of teeth had him crying out and staring at Takashi in surprise.

This cheeky bastard-

“Shiro.” Keith gave the man a dark look that would have had Lance petrified if directed at him. And even though it isn't, he still feels his throat close up with anxiety as the man growled, "I get it, alright? So let me touch him." 

Takashi doesn’t even flinch. 

Instead he watches, mesmerized, as he pushed further against Lance’s leg and scanned the expanse of the lithe muscle stretching to it’s limit and beyond, until it had Shiro hesitating in doubt.

But just when they think he can’t go any further, Lance burns beet red as the tips of his toes pressed right by his right ear and curled. 

“ _Shiro,_ ” Keith shuddered. 

“Beautiful," Takashi whispered in a dazed. 

Lance is at the point where doesn’t know what to do anymore.

It occurs to him, in this whirlwind of passion and arousal, that as much as he wants to continue the road they're on, there’s no possible way he can allow it. Not when-

“I haven’t, ah-" His mouth is dry, and Keith drags his eyes up to look at him when a nervous edge catches on his words. “I need to clean,” he blurts.

Shiro blinks out of his trance to stare curiously at Lance, but Keith, of course it's Keith, catches on almost immediately and shoots Takashi a victorious grin that Lance doesn’t fully understand at first, does, and looks between them in silent shock. 

_Oh._

“I’ll make it work,” Takashi says suddenly, snapping Lance from his inner realization. 

Keith waved a hand in their direction and glared at Shiro. “Are you deaf?” He spits. “He says he can’t.” 

Which isn’t true, _Mullet_. Lance can totally do it, but he won’t unless he’s fully prepared, which he’s not. And last he checked, unlike every erotic story he’s ever read, men weren’t born with clean asses ready for pounding twenty-four seven. 

Sorry to break it to you.

Not that Shiro's sorry. In fact, he looks even more riled then he had previously. 

His hand, the metal one, eased his leg back down to bracket his thighs and moved to tug gently at Lance’s pale boxers. He stops; taking a moment to ask permission as Lance stared on with wide eyes and a mantra of _this isn't happening, this isn't happening,_ but he must nod, though, because it's not long before he's laying completely bare and at the mercy of two sets of eyes that rake down his quivering frame and quietly process. 

Shiro’s other hand fumbles against himself and Keith hunches low with a growl of frustration that’s almost pitiful. He looks pained; fingers digging deep into a nearby cushion as a means to hang on while Shiro ran his palms flat against Lance’s belly and pressed up. Caressed the flesh gently and smoothed over his collarbone to circle at his throat. 

Keith groans and Takashi takes his eyes of Lance’s blissed out gaze to snap, “Hands off.”  

Lance turned his head just in time to catch Keith’s hand yanking free of his tenting dick. He remembered reading something about this while browsing the internet. The frustration of having to hold back and being forced to watch. 

It sends a thrill through Lance’s body that has him moaning quietly when Takashi rocks into him; pupils blown and eyes glinting as he shoved his slacks down just enough to have his cock heavy at his hip.

Now, Lance had seen his fair share of dicks since his late teens, okay? He had one, he'd sucked more than one, he _was_  one. Did that make him an expert? No, but he'd been around the block enough times to see that Shiro was a man of girth only found in _fan-fiction_. It almost makes him happy they couldn't do more than touching.

Pisses him off when he get's a taste of penis envy.

The hands at his throat retreat and find purchase beneath his knees once again, drawing his focus and pushing up and together to create what Lance can see now, is an opening with the cross of his calves.  

Takashi holds him in position, a husky, “Hang on,” the only warning Lance get’s before there are strong thighs slamming flush against his ass and throwing him damn near into the back of the couch. 

He’ll be offended later, right now he’s focused on the pulse of hot pleasure that zips up his spine and has his brain turning to mush like it’s _nothing_. He feels his dick twitch in overwhelming interest, a smear of pre-cum already making it’s mark as his body recalled the feel of another. As muscle memory had him melting back and clinging to whatever give he could find in the mattress beneath him. 

“T-There,” Lance squeaked. The word spilled out before he could stop it but he wanted to chase the pleasure. To give Takashi the right instructions on how he could be played.

Nail the right keys and he would sing beautifully, just you watch. 

Shiro stroked short and agonizing, inflicting an insistent burning sensation that added to the fire in his gut but did nothing to put it out.

Sweat traced the length of the mans throat and disappeared beneath the fabric of his shirt when he moved violent enough. And if Shiro were closer, Lance would claw up the length of his back and tear the wretched fabric from his body immediately. Bare his flesh for him to see so that he wasn’t the only one being ripped apart by their gazes. 

A punctuated thrust sent Lance mewling, then groaning in desperate need as his cock wept and pleaded for repetition. 

“Here?” Takashi questioned, rocking slower and searching Lance’s face for any change. 

And besides the growing color of his cheeks, Lance’s brows stayed pinched in frustration as the lingering height of pleasure ratcheted down, leaving him wet and waiting. 

“Up.” 

Lance squeezed his legs tighter and nodded in response to Keith’s pant of input. Takashi seemed to avoid the advice at first, as if angered to be directed by his subordinate, but the continued whimpers that poured from Lance’s mouth had him cursing and leaning back to angle higher. 

_There it is._

Lance writhed. He was sure his body would cramp at any moment as his muscles bore down and coaxed that edge closer, but Shiro took a moment to slow his pace and bite at the leg he was using for leverage. 

“Keith,” he said suddenly. 

And, _yes_. Lance wasn’t sure he’d ever say this but he wanted Keith. _Wanted Keith, wanted Keith, wanted-_

“Open.”

Lance does and is met with the taste of mint. 

Where Takashi was meticulous and confident, Keith was sporadic and unforgiving. He didn’t care for Lance’s comfort as he bit and bruised his lips, his throat, dug his nails deep into his jaw and forced Lance to look at him. Made him take it up top as Takashi ruined him below. 

“Keith,” Takashi said again, and when Keith looked up, added, “Ask nicely.” 

Lance let out a hitched moan as Shiro rolled his body into his; felt he might explode as Keith glared, eyes conflicted and angry all at the same time. It’s a hit to his pride, Lance realized, but obviously worth it as he reared back and tugged his pants down to release his flushed cock. 

Takashi looks genuinely surprised. 

“Lance,” Keith panted, droplets of sweat tracing his jaw. “Please?” 

And of course. Yes. Hell yes. Who in their right mind would turn him down, holy-

Shiro shoves Lance’s legs down so they're flush with his heaving chest and grinds deep. Grinds _hard,_ and doesn’t stop even when Lance breaks out into a string of weak cries and shivers his ecstasy in peaking release. 

Takashi smirks. “C’mon, Keith. I know you can do better than that. Right, Lance?” 

This is a game. Lance has been currently sidelined and, in a surprise twist, is watching his competitors compete against _each other._ He will take no penalty this round and will gladly let Shiro use him as he sees fit. Whatever will make him likable.

Whatever will get him closer. 

“Try again.” 

Keith looks murderous but softens his glare to a lesser degree when he sees Lance watching him, mouth slack and blue eyes gone. This is what the man had been going for in the bathroom before Shiro had interrupted, Lance can tell. And he’d love to let him indulge, but Lance wasn’t the one in charge. 

Takashi was. 

Keith seems to know that, though. 

“Please, Lance,” Keith says quietly, a tinge of desperation to his words. “Let me come.” 

Hook, line, sinker. 

Lance doesn’t need Takashi’s permission to know it’s okay to open his mouth. The lag in Shiro’s well-aimed thrusts is enough of a prompt for him to open wider, relax his throat, and suck the length of Keith’s cock down in one well aimed nod. 

Bet he didn’t see that coming.

Keith doesn't.

The smaller man bucked his hips and crammed Lance’s mouth full until tears pricked the corners of his eyes and had Takashi barking at his partner to let up. Lance can take it though, even chases the retreating v-line before forcing himself to go limp; to start over and just let the length of Keith’s cock fill his quivering throat and refresh his memory. 

He moans too, just to see Keith’s eyes roll back.

“Fuck, Lance,” Keith grunts. “This the only way to keep you quiet?”

Lance’s retort is muffled and pointless, merely bringing more pleasure to the asshole he’s so graciously serving, and before he can bite his dick off, Shiro is catching onto his train of thought and distracting him with a punishing thrust that has him choking on Keith and whimpering in pleasure. 

Keith has no manners. 

He runs his fingers through the soft tufts of Lance’s hair and clings, keeping him in place as he spread his knees and rolled his hips up into Lance’s mouth, back and forth, back and forth, until Lance was keening below him and scrambling to hang onto something.

And Takashi, as if making it up to Lance for his hardships, doesn’t let up on each jackhammer of a thrust. His leaking cock slides hot against Lance’s own and rubs, and grinds, and fucks tight between Lance's thighs as Lance clawed at the mattress and prayed that his nails didn’t ruin the material. 

_Ruining something of there's is what got you here in the first place, don't—ah, d-don’t-_

Takashi jolts upright suddenly, both his arms wrapping tight around Lance’s knees, and Lance doesn't have nearly enough time to hang on as the man chased his release in a violent show of physical strength and practically hurled Lance into a whirlwind of writhing ecstasy with the friction against his cock.

He comes; dick pulsing and rocketing against his belly as heat spilled along his skin and leached into every nerve in his body. Takashi had ditched the grip he had on Lance’s legs soon after and hunched over him with a growl that sent a shiver ricocheting down his bowed spine.

It’s a position change that had Lance’s feet hitting flat against the mattress, his legs unresponsive as they bracketed Shiro's quaking thighs, and gave him a perfect view of the man as he stroked himself to prolonged completion and chewed a whimper into his bottom lip.

"Fuck," Shiro shuddered.

And Lance mentally agreed as he watched molten ropes hit just as warm against his naval and furthered the mess of white decorating his dark skin in a messy spatter.

He'd complain about his humiliation later, but right now, the burn in his relinquished muscles is nothing compared to the tips of his ears, Takashi’s scar, and Keith’s shoulders as the smaller man curled his fingers tight in Lance's hair and fought for a better angle.

Keith bucked his hips desperately, eyes narrowed into a glare, and Lance purred something gentle to send a flurry of vibrations to the base of his piercing cock with a patient glint in his gaze.

 _Come_.

Keith’s hips stutter.

Lance met the man with an encouraging moan, watched Keith shiver at Shiro's coo of encouragement, and waited for those few weak thrusts before Keith finally emptied himself down his willing throat with a groan. 

Keith held, panting through the aftershocks, and it wasn’t until Shiro flapped a panicked hand to his partners shoulder did Keith jump and immediately pull out with a hasty apology.

That's it.

Lance can collapse now; pliant and malleable in Shiro’s arms as the man planted a kiss to his temple and helped rub feeling back into his legs. It had been a while since he felt so sated. So perfectly undone. And to have Takashi so caring after?

"Score," Lance slurred.

Shiro laughs something tired and warm, but Lance isn't there enough to catch the trailing comment.

It must not be that important though, because there's no insistent shake to wake him and he falls asleep quite easily with the taste of Kogane in his mouth and Takashi on his skin.

_"Good boy."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I’m so excited to finally get this chapter out to you guys. I wrote it about eight times, deleted it seven times, and have finally come to peace with this final work. (There are things I wish I could change but then I’d never update, haha).  
> Shiro is ridiculously fun to write. I just love seeing his hardcore side and then his immediate switch with Lance. He definitely loves Keith too but I needed him mad in order for Lance to get used as his punishment.  
> Was that okay?  
> Lance was 100% caught off guard but not totally surprised/angry about what went down. It’ll definitely make for an awkward morning but I was so giddy seeing them get it on. And Shiro was the cause *cough*.  
> It’s been a while, I have more to say but this chapter was long enough.  
> Thank you all for your patience! I love you guys and would love to here from you if you have questions/concerns/criticism!


	11. Mornings After

It’s up and at ‘em!

Lance doesn’t need the luxury of an alarm clock when he had a perfectly good hand rain down on him like hell fire and rip away the thin sheet that managed to tangle itself around his unconscious body during the night.

And it’s only fair that the harsh movements create a knot that hooked chokingly tight around his ankle and, subsequently, dragged him half off the mattress into a sprawled mess of confusion and dazed terror. 

He flails, hoping to catch a muscled thigh, maybe even a metal arm, but his efforts result in him landing hard on his ass with a breathless grunt.

“It is seven forty-five A.M.”

The shades rolled up in one punctuated movement allowing the blinding light of the morning sun to spill into the room without preamble. And though Lance is momentarily incapacitated, it does nothing to deter the current suspense of this new character introduction.

“Employees are expected to work at eight o’clock _sharp_. And _you_ ,”

A meaty hand gripped tight at his jaw, bronze fingers digging into the claimed grooves of Keith’s earlier markings before forcing his head at an angle that gave him a clear view of his rude awakener. 

“Should not. Be here.” 

That registered.

He allows himself a few seconds to blink the painful glare from his eyes until the blurred edges of his abuser became solid images and harsh lines.

Then he gasped, flinched, and lurched back upon realizing the uncomfortable proximity he’d been forced into by a man way too large to not be of some danger. 

And he thought _Takashi_ was big. 

“Get dressed,” the man ordered. 

A shirt was thrown his direction haphazardly but Lance was quick enough to hold up a hand before he lost an eye. He isn’t, however,  entirely prepared for the much too large pair of sweats that swallow half his head and have him sputtering in surprise.

Not that this guy cared. 

In fact, he looked quite pleased with himself when Lance clambered out from beneath the suffocating navy blue and squinted against the morning rays. 

What time was it again? 

More importantly.

“Who-” 

“Thace Wingert,” comes the less than friendly interruption. “I am the acting manager of this company, I was sent by Mr. Shriogane to retrieve _and_ dispose of you, and my patience is thinning as we speak. Would you please dress yourself?” 

Lance stared up at this Thace Wingert with something akin to astonishment. For one, he’s the second employee of Takashi’s that’s absolutely breathtaking. From his intimidating height, to the angular proportions of his face, Lance would feel inclined to blush if not for his downright shit attitude. 

And he thought _Keith_ was an asshole. 

Lance would love to try his hand at a retort, but he’s cut off by a row of slim fingers that clamped deep into the meat of Thace’s shoulder and jerked him into an odd angle that forced him to look back or remain unaware of who it was that was touching him.

“Thace,” Ulaz said with a tight smile. “I thought I told you to leave Mr. McClain’s affairs to me?”

The material of Thace’s shirt scrunched and Lance winced sympathetically when Ulaz’s fingers bullied against the tendons and triggered spasms of discomfort through the larger man’s braced arm.  

He sputtered, _gasped_ actually, and gave the leaner man a guilty smile that wilted at the corners. “D-Did you?” 

“Didn’t I?” Ulaz countered. 

Lance thinks now is as good as any time to tug the sweats up over his bruised thighs; ends up tying them as tight as they can go to save him the humiliation of them falling down.

And he’d put on the offered cotton v-neck as well but really doesn’t mind the room of warmth Takashi’s turtleneck provides against his chilled skin. 

Did Shiro leave shirtless?

“Mr. McClain?” 

Lance jolted and met Ulaz’s familiar gentleness with a wane smile, although he tried his best. He’d been running on pure adrenaline the past few minutes and was finding it hard to scrounge up enough energy to see the scene through.

There was still a lot he had to take in, mind you. Still a lot he hadn’t had the chance to fully process.

Preferably alone, in his own bed, after a nice _long_ shower. 

But until then, Lance has to settle for a friendly correction, “Lance is fine,” and adds, “It’s nice to see you again, Ulaz,” which causes the man’s caramel eyes to brighten substantially. 

Thace bristled around the edges; blushed when Lance gave him an inquisitive look.

“It’s nice to see you as well, Lance. Although it’s been twice now we’ve met under unpleasant circumstances.” 

Lance laughed and couldn’t help looking around the break room for...anything, really. 

His work bag had been sandwiched between the small coffee table and plastic chair, but his phone was was still hooked to his charger next to the lifeless coffee maker on the counter.

The chaos of the previous night must have been handled by experienced hands.

His tattered slacks were nowhere to be seen and his ruined sweater and damp dress shirt were no longer on his body _or_ in the room. 

It’s a rushed work. 

Hide-the-evidence-before-anyone-sees-the crime-scene sort of work. 

Lance swallowed. 

“Um,” Ulaz motioned with his hands suddenly and cocked his head a bit, looking as though the words weren’t coming to him in the right manner.

They do, of course. Just in a rush of, “The storm wreaked havoc on a lot of our developing work sites last night.”

And when Lance raised a brow, unsure of how that information helped in this situation, Ulaz wrung his fingers and flashed a look towards Thace.

 _Permission_.

”The company is receiving a surplus of emergency maintenance calls and required immediate attention from the higher ups.”

Thace let out a huff in response that Ulaz acknowledged quickly and discreetly. It’s an interaction that told Lance Ulaz was beneath Thace in some unspoken hierarchy.

He makes a mental note to watch what he says around the man from now on. If he were the acting manager, and judging from his demeanor he _was_ , this wouldn’t be the last Lance would see of him.

“If it helps, they wished to stay and see you out.” 

 _Oh_.

It’s hard to suppress the rapid blush burning his cheeks and he’s quick to clear his throat when a whine of happiness escaped the confines of his chest. It wasn’t like he’d been _hurt_ about their absence or anything, he was honestly somewhat grateful Takashi and Kogane were gone when he woke up. 

It gave him time to evaluate his actions accordingly and appropriately. 

Which he’ll do. 

Now that he could stop worrying about why they had left him on his own.

But, they would’ve stayed? For him?

Lance shook himself of the blooming content and tried to focus on the task at hand, which was getting the hell out of here before he marred his reputation further.

And despite Ulaz’s gentle aura, he’s quite hard on Thace as Lance gathered his things and announced his readiness to depart. There’s a threatening, “ _Stay_ ,” that he has to act like he doesn’t hear, more out of respect for Thace than his own discomfort, before following the tall man out of the break room and into the elevator like he’d done hours prior.

The game had changed. 

Feel that shiver down your spine? 

Let that ominous feeling sink in while he switched gears.

It’s walking on eggshells from here on out. No more risks, no more half-assed investigating. It was time to save face and really put up his guards. 

He’d taken a hit during the interview. Lance  marked it in his notes and dated it as Ulaz pulled out of the parking garage and into the steady flow of Sunday traffic. He would need three weeks of careful persuasion and overlap to get that blip off his track record, two and a half if he was lucky. 

And with that out of the way, now it was only the matter of seeing Shiro lose his goddamn mind over what Lance assumed was Keith’s trip up. Kogane had been nothing but a hard ass since Lance had met him, so if he was that shaken up about Takashi’s reaction?

That goes down in his notes too. 

Keith had been pale. Nails digging, knee shaking, breathing ragged, downright _scared_. 

Takashi got angry, _no-_

Lance double tapped the adjective, highlighted it, and touched the back button to correct himself. 

Takashi had been _furious_. Furious enough to risk punching out the glass in his office. Furious enough to raise his voice at Keith and find comfort in thinking Lance hadn’t been close enough to catch his rage. To see a side of him that showed his true colors. 

Noted.

Ulaz promises on the behalf of Takashi that they’ll be in touch soon. Says that, “He asked I remind him to call you as soon as they get back.” 

And Lance nods, offers a genuine smile filled with renewed vigor now that his mind is working, and reeling, and _god_ he had so much he needed to go over. So much he needed to replay and analyze. 

“I’ll keep my ringer on.” 

 _Psych_. 

Lance writes in barely legible chicken scratch to mention certain points he found most incriminating in his notes, just to get a second opinion.

It’s all stuff he’ll put in his report come Monday, but if he doesn’t get it down now then it’s sure to be lost in the recesses of his mind or dissmissed by his bosses neglectful reading. 

And for those of you worrying at home, he does, in fact, take a shower and brush his teeth the second he steps into his apartment.

It’s all fun and games until he’s hyper aware of the dry semen running up his belly, so he scrubs himself clean and spends that time picking apart every sentence, every _body_ movement he’s encountered in the past twenty four hours until there’s absolutely nothing but ravished bones. 

Therein lies the good stuff. 

Lance has been warned, borderline threatened to stay away from anything Holt and Holt related. That’s red flag number one.

He’s also aware now that Shiro is not above bullying him. Last he checked, Kogane wasn’t the one pushing him around and making him promise things out of fear for his life. That’s red flag number two. 

Number three is buried deep in Takashi’s phone conversation and his fight with Keith. He’d tipped them off on something, struck a nerve and was forcing them to rethink their original game plan. 

They had begun moving their players around and strengthening their defenses but Lance didn’t know _why_.  

It had to be something big. Big enough to cause a rift between the business partners and prompt Takashi to-to-

“Fuck you?” 

Lance isn’t sure what causes Hunk to start choking alongside him but Lance _does_ know his own torment is due to the way he swallows. And if Allura made that into some goddamn pun he’d fucking-

“Spitters are quitters.” 

Slap Allura or give Hunk the heimlich, he can only choose one.

And the larger man had already turned an alarming shade of red; the flat of his palm slamming heavily against the table as the china clattered and patrons stared.

It’s dramatic in ways it doesn’t need to be, really. A few well aimed punches to the back is all it takes to have his best friend gulping down air and coughing into his glass of water as the hostess stood by with wide eyes. 

“He’s fine,” Lance called in reassurance before turning on Allura with a glare. “Could you _please_ take this seriously?” He hissed. “Between this assignment and trying to make sure I stay within my legal limitations, the last thing I need is you making fun of me.” 

“So I’m right?” Allura raised a brow. “You three-” 

Hunk held up a hand in warning which prompted Allura to censor herself and settle for a quick inclination of her head. The natural curl of her white locks bounced with the movement and gave away her anticipation as Lance let out a self loathing sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Not all the way.” 

Hunk gasped. 

Allura followed with a breathy, “Scandalous,” that had them all snickering into the safety of their teriyaki. 

It’s funny because they make it so, but Lance is aware enough of his actions that he sobers and stares at the scratchy wood of his chopsticks quietly. 

Hunk is the first to nudge him. “Did,” he rolls a hand, “You know?” 

“I’m not that desperate of a reporter, Hunk,” Lance grumbled, although it wouldn’t be surprising.

Sleeping with intel, indeed frowned upon and rarely brought up, was a sketchy way for journalists to get ahead in the field. Especially when they were assigned cases like Lance’s. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures and it explained why Iverson was so quick to brush off his conflict of interest the first time around. Also why he’ll do it again come three o’clock.

“It was a shit show from the start,” Lance admitted. “I got pissed that I wasn’t getting any closer to figuring out this Matt thing and I don’t know. I got desperate.”

“So did Kogane.” 

Lance glared at Allura for real this time, the itch of frustration nagging at his skin before she waved a hand to clear the air. 

“Lance, love,” she chidded. “I’m talking about his slip up. You’re right about Takashi clearing your name for now. If Kogane brought it up first, that can’t be traced back to you, can it?”

No. 

“And it probably explains why this Shirogane guy, _er-_ ” Hunk tugged at his collar and swallowed whatever gag came with talking about sex. “Came onto you.” 

Allura nodded, _yeah, see,_ and reached for the soy sauce _._ “You said it wasn’t hostile?” 

“Not towards me at least,” Lance muttered. “He was mad at Keith. They were fighting when I came back and still seemed tense before I fell asleep. He wasn’t even in the room when Takashi-”

All of them break for air as the waitress comes around with refills. Their eyes wander and it must get too awkward for the poor girl because she leaves without catering to Allura. 

“ _Right,_ ” Hunk drew out. “So you were a means of punishment?” 

Was he? That’s what he thought, at least. And with Allura and Hunk coming to that same consensus on their own.

“Well, damn,” Allura declared. “If that’s not a green light for moving forward, I don’t know what is.” A nervous laugh followed as she balled up her napkin and met Hunk and Lance’s stare with a tilt to her head. “I mean, he wouldn’t have done what he did if he were still mad at you.  _If_ he were even mad at you in the first place,” she clarified. “It was smart throwing Kogane under the bus, even smarter when you went along for the ride. You showed Shirogane trust and if you had had something to hide, you wouldn’t have let him touch you.” 

“Technically, if you had something to hide,” Hunk said. 

Allura winked. “Technically.” 

It’s the closest thing he’ll get to peace of mind short of Takashi and Keith declaring his inoccence to his face. But it made sense. And sense is all Lance needs to let go of his stirring insecurities with a thin sigh.

Not forty eight hours ago did Lance have Shiro’s hands wrapped tight around his throat. 

If that wasn’t trust, then Lance didn’t know what trust was.

He somehow manages to run down the clock thirty minutes before Hunk notices they’ve long since gone over their lunch break. Spends another ten cleaning up their table just to burn a few until Allura is all but dragging him from the small shop by the ear. 

You can’t avoid work forever, she always says. 

Lance has gotten surprisingly good at doing just that. 

Like a bell signaling the arrival of a customer, Lance has barely stepped off the elevator when Iverson hollars at him to, “Get your ass in my office, now!” 

The insistent snapping, as if he were some dog, is new and refreshing. Really knocks at his self-esteem; makes him feel like shit. 

“You’re doing shit work, McClain.” 

Lance finished closing the door and timbered down into the squeaky desk chair with a sheepish look. “I assume you finished reading my report then?”

Cue the hateful mocking before Iverson flipped his monitor around and enlarged Lance’s ten page report.

He’s expecting ridicule. Maybe even a slap to the hand for the way he let himself fall victim to Shiro’s advances.

It was all there. Every moment he’d spent beneath his targets for what turned into three pages of borderline smut.

If Iverson had a problem with it, there’s only a red scribble to show for it.

He’s scrolled some way down, page eight, Lance thinks, and has highlighted a large portion where Lance explained his investigation into Matt’s intern history. 

It’s the hard hitting part of his report. Not nearly the most important if you asked him, so of course there would be a problem with-

“Where are your sources?”

Lance blinked, genuinely stunned and somewhat relieved to not have to explain himself before leaning closer. He could’ve sworn he put them in. A few seconds of skimming confirmed this and had him pointing at the lower line in question. 

“They’re not live, sir,” Lance explained. “They’re actually not anything yet, but-”

“Where did you _get them_?” Iverson reiterated.

Again, Lance scours the entirety of his report and points out where it is he got his intel. It’s the same website Iverson directed him to when he first got the case, but instead of the home page, he traced it to the intern information link. 

“I printed out the entire list of interns they’ve had over the past two years,” Lance said, rifling through pages upon pages of notes he’d scribbled along. “It’s public information so I told them the schools we sell to were interested in knowing if the program is still running. I was going to contact the 2016 participants to see what they knew about Holt.” 

Iverson grunted and clicked a few tabs closed, one of which was incredibly graphic porn, before tapping rapidly at his keyboard and searching the organized array of blue and white links. 

“What did Shirogane say about you talking to these students?” 

Lance looked at his report and read what he’d written verbatim. All Iverson needed to know was what had been said and how had he reacted. 

“Ticked?”

Lance tilted his head back and forth searching for equilibrium. “Unnerved. Haunted, maybe. He doesn’t want me looking into them, that’s for sure.” 

“I wonder why?” Iverson flashed him a knowing smirk before looking back at the screen and clicking. 

He clicked again. 

And again. 

And again. 

And-

“You’re not fucking with me, right, McClain?”

Lance raised a brow and stretched along the desk to get a partial look at the monitor. Straight to the left, right under the bold _‘2016 Participants’_ held the link for students in the program and their end of the summer insight. There would be names, pictures, and the coinciding schools for who went where. 

He had the copies. He _had_ them. 

Unless...

“Son of a bitch.” 

Each click caused an ‘ERROR:392’ to flash along the screen before redirecting to the home page with a bright ‘Welcome’.

And Iverson nodded, pissed, but willing to place respect where respect was deserved.

“They work quick,” he marveled. “I’ll give them that.”

Lance pushed up and out of his seat before Iverson could say anything more and ignored the trailing curse of surprise when the desk rattled in his haste.

The racket of his departure drew multiple pairs of eyes that watched as he stormed down the aisle and ripped into his work bag grumbling in ways that could be considered _senile_. 

He’d left the copies in his note folder. The case files had stayed in his cabinets at home but he’d taken the intern list with him. 

“Lance?” 

God, was he stupid? Of course they’d take it from him after he fucking flaunted it in front of their faces. Of course they would take protective measures after he told them where he’d gotten the information in the _first_ place. 

If he didn’t have names, how in the hell was he going to get any closer to finding Matt? 

If he didn’t have leads, how the fuck was he going to explain himself to Pidge?

”Hey, woah there.” Hunk planted a firm hand on Lance’s shoulder and jostled him. “Slow it down, buddy. Tell me what we’re looking at.”

“They took my sources,” Lance spat.

Hunk nodded, “Okay,” and leaned past him to quickly punch in his login information. “Hard copy?”

Lance nipped the inside of his cheek and tossed his folder aside. “Gone. I left my bag out and I should’ve _known_ -“

“But we didn’t so we’ll figure it out, alright?” 

Hunk flashed him an encouraging smile and Lance has to remember that the man was right there alongside him with this case.

Deep breaths.

“They blocked the link on their website,” Lance muttered, laying a hand on Hunks shoulder and looming to see where it was he was moving the mouse. “I’ve had access to it for _weeks,_ man _._  They must’ve blocked it last night.”

Hunk clicked the bold font just as Iverson had done and received the same error message Lance had never once run into.

”Load loop.”

”A what?” 

Hunk and him looked up to where Allura had joined the fray, blue eyes bright with curiosity, before motioning to the screen. They all watched as the page reloaded, then opened back up to the home page flashing that shitty ‘Welcome’.

“I saw this last year before Jordan transferred. You can lock the server into a load loop so visitors can’t access the website.”

“So how do you get past it?”

Lance chewed on his knuckle and scoured the web page absentmindedly. It’d probably be a matter of contacting their IT guy and trying to figure out a timeframe in which he could get past the admin block. 

He would do it himself, but last he checked, he wasn’t a tech genius. 

It’s a passing thought, feeble, but dire, and it pulses hot in his chest just as Hunk tensed and whipped around to stare at where Lance had gone stiff; eyes widening. 

Tech genius. 

Hunk snaps his fingers, _bingo_ , and Lance curses himself for not thinking of it sooner as he scrambled for his phone and began punching in the urgent message.

Allura looked between the two, eyes lost and lips pressed tight as she tried to read into the one way conversation the best she could.

”What am I missing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> How are you guys?  
> This chapter is definitely a whirlwind of events and I want to make note that there will be more shklance interaction in the next chapter.  
> Keith and Shiro left for reasons both job related and JOB related if you know what work I’m talking about. But I think it was cute to see Lance sort of relieved that he wasn’t the reason they left in such a rush (at least that’s what he was told by Ulaz). The repercussions of that night will definitely come into play soon and I’m excited to see Lance’s mix of emotions on that one.  
> Shiro and Keith are in for it.  
> But more importantly, it didn’t take long for Lance to get hit with Shiro’s push back. Without those leads, Lance is pretty screwed in terms of getting further investigation done, so that’s where a certain someone comes in. Hehe.  
> It’s about time I shut up now. Thank you so much for reading and as always, I love your comments or question if you have any!


	12. What Goes Around

Fun fact: Lance barely made it to age six. 

He knows he’s throwing a curveball, what with the hiatus and everything, but he feels now is as good as any time to dig up the dark remnants of his inked past and apply more life lessons to the shit show that was his current day to day.

And if you’re expecting some angsty, drama filled tale where he was this frail, sickly child from an _‘outrageously poor’_  country? 

Newsflash: not everything’s a sob story.

Which isn’t to say his story was pleasant, but you get the jist.  

Call it a rebellious streak, the infamous toddler terrors, _whatever_. Lance wasn’t about the labels then and he couldn’t care less now.

There was just no logical excuse that pardoned him the day he thought it’d be a good idea to break free of his mamas grasp and sprint across the Target parking lot.

Sure, it had been fun and all. He absolutely thrilled at his first real offense, adrenaline bursting forth with new life as he pushed his legs to the limit and set his sights for their scratched up mini-van. 

A few strides more and it would’ve been goodbye world, hello pavement, if not for the familiar yank that damn near ripped shoulder from socket and stopped him before the back blinker could clip him sideways and hydraulic press him into nothing more than a bloody smear along the heated lot.

Now you’re probably wondering, what lesson could one even _begin_ to take out of this sporadic story time? 

First, gold star for caring enough to think about it. 

Second, it was the fact Lance learned that day that physical discipline was almost always worth the few judgmental stares lest you end up with a child void of self-preservation. Or one that needed scraping off slick asphalt. 

Case and point-

“This is totally uncalled for!” 

Decompressing lunch-goers wound tight with attention as two tiny hands flailed upward, swung rabid with violent intent, and promptly disappeared beneath the height of the worn booth.

Cue the tense moment of silence, on with a distinct popping sound, and then there’s the shrill scream of what sounds like a dying cat as a winded grunt gave way to Lance’s wounded sprawl. 

Pidge was definitely tiny, but the height didn’t seem to hinder her crotch kicking abilities in any way. 

Noted, highlighted, this is a national emergency announcement. 

Lance cupped at his balls and knelt against the corner of the table, debating if it’d be worth it to bite his wrist to take the edge off the pain.

To his left, a helpful hand hovered on stand by, one that Lance briefly acknowledged before countering with his own vengeful palm and grinding mercilessly into the birds nest Pidge called hair. 

“Uncalled for, huh?” Lance’s eye twitched. “Is that what this is? Cuz I vividly remember telling you _not_ to go outside. Remember that conversation?”

Pidge managed her way out from beneath the unforgiving assault and hit Lance with a warning glare. “I got hungry,” she fired off. “Not everyone can live off of orange juice and old take out, _freak_.” 

“You could’ve called me,” Lance countered, taking the insult in stride as he loomed along the torn seatery. “Or better yet, _texted back when I asked you how things were_.”

“I got hungry for _independence,”_  Pidge declared. “I’ve been cooped up in your apartment for two days, Lance!” 

“And whose fault is that!” 

Not Lance’s, by the way, no. 

And before everyone lost their goddamn minds over his admission of harboring a minor, let him explain himself. 

“Alright, Hunk?” He threatened; hand outstretched as he targeted each and every disproving look in the pizzeria, Plaxum included. “Let me explain.” 

It’s a lot to ask, he knows. But for those of you willing to put forth the effort, let’s all flip back a couple of chapters and refresh the plot line. 

Not seven days ago had Pidge stolen those highly classified files and nearly got Lance horribly murdered in the process. Ignore Pidge’s scoff of disagreement because that is _exactly_ what happened and it’s important he tells this as efficiently as he can with Hunk and, to his surprise, the whole room listening. 

Fast forward to their Ihop escapade, quickly rehash him assaulting the waiter with boiling coffee, and then insert a clever exiting statement that left a gaping hole in Pidge’s whereabouts. 

Had she gone home? 

Was the waiter ever treated for his second degree burns?

Is water _actually_ wet?

All these questions were sure to surface and would no doubt bite him in the ass the second Iverson got a hold of him. Because Lance had punched holes where holes should not have been punched and realized, after his month long think session, that such holes would only hinder him come time to throw his actual story together. 

So let’s work through this together and try to keep up. 

Leaving Katie alone that Friday night had been out of the question. Was still out of the question even now as said girl sat hunched over a rootbeer float.

Because Colleen had never made an appearance and, judging from Pidge’s nonchalance, probably _wouldn't_ anytime soon, what with her sporadic trips to visit her husbands grave; Pidge’s words, not his.

All he had to do was factor in their recent not-so-legal adventures and Lance had every right to march the seventeen year old back into his car without a second thought. He couldn’t even toy with the idea of leaving Pidge to her own devices. 

Not after what she’d done. 

Because if someone was, in fact, looking for them, then what better target was there besides young, female, and alone? 

Lance knew that answer; had seen that answer on the job too many times for him to turn a blind eye. 

So, yeah middle-aged-probably-history-professor, maybe it wasn’t the brightest idea to bring a seventeen-but-looks-thirteen-year-old girl back to his apartment in the dead of night. And yeah, maybe he’d be getting a concerned visit from his landlord in the following weeks, but at least Pidge was safe. 

“Am I, Lance? Am I _really_?”

Lance focused a murderous stare on the girl brave enough to fire back with her tongue sticking out. And that action alone must be enough for the entire eatery to see their relationship dynamic because the soothing chatter takes up immediately after.

Even Hunk laughs, “Just like, Mina,” and Lance cuts a hand through the air in disbelief because that’s _exactly_ what it is. Like he never left home. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Lance punched out. “Except _Mina_ could reach the top shelf without asking for help.”

And they’re off. 

Lance is purposefully hitting the girl with light jabs. Hunk can see it in the soft hardness of his blue gaze, the way the corners of his lips twitch in good fun, and when Plaxum edges over looking slightly off kilter by the whole event, one look from the large man explains it all. 

Pidge would probably do anything in her power to argue with Matt again. 

Lance figured he’d keep her skills up to par until he found him. 

“Is there any reason you two came here to harass me?” Pidge questioned, looking much more rejuvenated and charged with social interaction. 

Lance screwed up his face, “It’s not like I come here for the food,” and squawked when Plaxum struck him over the head with a menu. “I’m kidding,” he muttered. “And to answer your question, Pidgeon-“

“We think you can help us,” Hunk interjected. He greeted the young girl with a quick wave, flushing all the while as he introduced himself, “Hunk,” and waited for Pidges nod to continue. “I’m Lance’s editor for the article he’s doing on your brother. I’m assuming you’ve been caught up on the interview?” 

Lance nodded, _yes_ , but with a hint of ‘ _I left out some parts and I think you know why_ ’

We all knew why.

“Right,” Hunk drawled, flashing Pidge a nervous smile. “Well, at some point during the interview, our intel got swiped and we made the mistake of not printing multiple-” 

Pidge held up a hand, “Hold on,” and asked for clarification. “The _intern_ list?” 

Lance burned with guilt as Pidge sought him out. “I wasn’t watching my bag,” he admitted. “I fell asleep and they must’ve taken it while I was out.”

“So what’s the problem?” Pidge asked absently. She’d taken interest in rearranging the contents of the table just as Plaxum shuffled over; full platter and all. “Just print off another list.” 

“If it were that easy do you think I would’ve driven all the way here, Pidge?” 

Pidges eyes rolled, “If I understood what the problem was do you think I’d be asking, Lance,” and corrected her glasses. 

Plaxum laughed this time and Lance blessed her with. heated stare that snapped, _shouldn’t you be working_? To which she responded with one of her own that snarled, _shouldn’t you_? 

“Touche.” 

“What Lance is trying to say,” Hunk directed hastily. “What _we’re_ , trying to say. Is that they load looped the intern information link. Like, nice try, goodbye, don’t come back here ever again if you know what’s good for you.” 

“Exactly,” Lance agreed.

“Exactly,” Plaxum echoed. 

The racket of filtering patrons did nothing to drown out the thud of his racing heart; the words taking a moment to settle and marinate. To click in Pidge’s head before the girl is nudging her glasses up, giving them a knowing half smile, and cracking the knuckle of her thumb.

“So what’s the problem?”

That’s exactly it.

There isn’t one. 

Call it the first time Lance has ever seen Hunk rendered speechless. Computers, gadgets, that was for Hunk to figure out when things went awry. 

It’s cause for smugness as Pidge spent five minutes- no, really. _Five_ minutes, tapping along the keyboard, humming a tune under her breath, all while Lance nibbled on her neglected crust.

The three of them sat, patiently waiting for any sign of progress that came in the form of a violent glitch.

It must be a good thing too because Pidge made a giddy noise in the back of her throat and punched in a thirty digit code like this was an everyday occurrence.

The screen flitted black, a green ring spun it’s thought process, then the laptop sang its refresh before it booted back up onto a familiar word document.

“You want me to email it to you just in case?”

Tech, _fucking_ , genius.

Lance snatched Pidge up and ignored all protest; his arms locking tight so he could convey his appreciation through touch.

And he’s not entirely aware that he’s shivering a palm comes to rest between his shoulder blades and pat hesitantly. 

“Lance?” 

Okay, so maybe he was scared.

This was the first real case Lance had gotten since he started working in the Garrison and yeah, in the beginning it had been about making a name for himself. Getting up there in the short list of journalists whose identities never died down even when you’ve long stopped screaming. It still mattered, but Katie had thrown his initial intentions out the window the second she broke down in front of him.

Getting this scoop wasn’t about the recognition anymore. Finding the truth and representing that truth even if he never found Matt was what was important now; making sure Katie got _closure_ was important now. And if he were to present a well investigated, rich with content article about this scandal and the VCC’s involvement? 

That alone would be enough to get Matt’s disappearance to a national level. 

But in order to do that, he needed solid sources to get ahead. Sources he had _finally_ found. So the second he realized he’d lost them...

“This is perfect,” Pidge said suddenly. “It just helps our case knowing they got something to hide, right?” 

Right. 

Lance let Pidge go and caught Hunk’s concern with a flippant wave. “It’s going to make for some interesting conversation, that’s for sure. But it might give me a one up over them when things get tight.”

“Back up.” Hunk‘s jaw cranked out a few violent chews, swallowed around a painful edge of crust, and beat it out with a fist to his sternum. “You’re calling them out?” 

No. Wait, _yes_. That’s exactly what he was going to do. Great idea.

“Hell yeah!” Pidge beamed. “So what’s the plan, then,” she lit up; eyes eager as she leaned close and wiggled. “Are we playing this safe or is the big guy here to pound out some answers?”

Hunk watched Pidge slam a tiny fist into the flat of her palm and sputtered his horrified offense. “ _Excuse_ you,” he huffed. “My name is _Hunk_ , okay? And nobody is pounding on anybody. Right, Lance?” 

“Right,” Lance agreed. “Because I’m going to be the only one pounding out answers tonight.” 

Don’t...Don’t read into that.

Hunk’s argument is drowned out by Pidge’s whoop of excitement and Plaxum cleared their plates with her own gentle laugh. 

Because Lance has no real intentions of fighting Kogane, let alone Takashi. He could see that scene play out crystal clear in his mind; yet another re-run of his close encounter at age six. 

Except this time he’d be beaten to a bloody pulp and told to fuck off while he still had his legs. 

“I’m kidding, Hunk,” Lance chidded, trying his best to give his closest friend some color again. “I’m just going to talk to them, alright? Maybe I’ll yell-”

Hunk groaned. “You always yell, Lance. It’s in your genes.” 

“So what if I yell!” Lance, oh look, _yelled_. “They deserve that much after the shit they pulled.”

“Not when you’re trying to get on their good side, man! Are you insane?” 

Possibly.

Lance couldn't care less about being on their good side at the moment and that’s a big problem. He was pissed that they stole his sources, pissed that they made him involve Pidge further, pissed that they had just... _left_ him after everything and-

Um.

“This isn’t up for negotiation, Hunk. Pidge got us the leads, now I need you to take her back to my place and watch her ‘till I get home, okay?” 

Pidge muttered something along the lines of, “I’m not a baby,” and Lance instinctively ruffled her hair less aggressively than he’d done prior. 

She’s not a baby and she doesn’t need a babysitter; he tells her this exactly. “But I’m not risking anyone getting more of a visual on you. Plus, who knows what kind of shit I’ll stir up tonight doing this, so stay indoors.” Lance looked up at Hunk. “That goes for both of you, alright? You two have done enough.” 

More than enough. 

Hunk seemed adamant on at least staying nearby, wherever Lance ended up, just in case he needed someone to be there. But Lance thinks it best that they both lay low on the off chance Takashi is intimidated by the extra hovering.

“I’ll keep you updated,” Lance smiled. “Just make sure this one gets to bed no later than twelve.”

Lance gives Hunk a spare for safe keeping and let’s them out across from his place with a reassuring smile that doesn’t do much good. No matter how light Lance tries to keep the conversation, both Hunk and Pidge stay solemn, as if it were the last time they’d see him. 

Which it won’t be. 

Sorry for the spoiler. 

But he still contemplates his decision in the quiet of his car, idling at a stop sign just a turn away from what could possibly be the dumbest decision he ever made in his life.

 

* * *

 

Two hours in and Shiro showed no signs of stopping. 

The only indication of what _could_ have been the beginning stages of fatigue was lost in the even rise and fall of the mans chest; each exhale bringing another bone rattling thud as metal pummeled flesh.

From the looks of it, they’d be here another four if Keith didn’t step in soon. Three if they were lucky and the guy decided to keel over before then. 

Which isn’t likely at this point. Keith can see that Shiro is having way more fun with this than he previously thought, and to pull him off now would only end in a brutal fight.  

The fun is in the shoulders for those who couldn’t see; the way he’s pulling his punches. Shiro wasn’t a man of sadistic tendencies, but this was pushing the envelope by far. 

For example- 

Another spay of blood burst from the snitches mouth, clinging to the metal of Shiro’s prosthetic and flicking off in a crimson arc that left no one untouched. Keith felt the droplets impact somewhere on his face but he’s since lost interest in the whole event. He’s not even sure the guy has anything more to say that would be of use to them.

Not because he’s missing half his teeth, but because they already got him to spill his guts not ten minutes in. 

Real trooper, this guy. 

Something cracks. A collar-bone, a nose, an eye-socket, Keith isn’t really sure. The width of Shiro’s shoulders aren’t offering much viewing advantage and the dim lights of the large tough shed provide little visibility of the snitches swollen face. 

Empathy, empathy. 

Don’t be fooled. 

Fucker sold his daughter into sex-trafficking for a quick buck just to snort it down the drain and end up the rat he is now. The rat that helped organize the jack last month and caused Shiro’s most highly favored soldier to get shot. 

What goes around comes around. 

“Boss seems pent up.” 

Keith grunted in agreement and watched Shiro continue the interrogation with a manic glint in his eye. The normally cool gray had taken on the familiar hue of choatic reasoning that would accept no argument and no disobediance in a time like this. It’s what had each and every soldier standing a safe distance away while still being close enough to come should they be requested. 

It wasn’t often you had the head of the organization going one on one with you. Now _that_ , was a privilege. 

And it probably _was_ due to Shiro being a bit wound up at the moment. 

Sexually? Keith felt like he’d been doing a good job on his end. 

Mentally?

“He’s been like that since the boy left.” 

Keith regarded Thace with a drawn look, caught off guard by the statement but quickly challenging the man with a cutting glare. He had no intentions of speaking to him about Lance. Or to anyone for that matter. 

God knew how Shiro would react if Thace raised his voice even a decibel.

Keith had no reason to bring Lance up for a long while until the valence to their latest encounter lost it’s charge and they weren't so tense on the job. In fact, Keith had wouldn't think to speak with or about Lance unless the man- 

Thace looked down at the not so dim light of Shiro’s phone shining through the fabric of Keith’s pocket. It draws a few curious gazes, all of which he ignores, and he’s about to resign himself to ignorance when he catches the familiar map of caramel flesh along the wide screen.

It’s all he needs to rip the device from it’s dark prison.

“Fuck off,” he tells Thace.

And much like a mouse would do, Keith scurried to a secluded part of the shed and all but stabbed the text bubble.

There’s a small I.D photo at the top of the screen that deserves a double take. If the name wasn’t blatant enough, than the warm photo of Lance mid laugh is absolutely damning. 

How the hell did Takashi...

Another vibration derailed his train of thought and had him scrolling. 

 **Lance: 5:15**  

_Can you meet with me?_

Then,

**Lance: 5:17**

_Like, right now?_

Keith worried his lip and looked up just in time to watch Antok kill his light on the flat of the man’s tongue. There’s a gargled scream, _Champion, please_ , that had Shiro looking momentarily torn.

It’s a fleeting look, not nearly weighted enough, and then he’s hauling the man up by his hair and dragging him outside.

Keith just needed the familiar clatter of heavy chains and there’s no doubt in his mind that Shiro is beyond talking down. 

Meaning, having him meet with Lance is a no go. _Reminding_ him about Lance wasn’t even a consideration.

Keith punched in a quick reply and grabbed his discarded dress coat thinking it best for all of them if he handled this by himself. Lance was not to get within five feet of Shiro if he valued any mundane action of his easy going life.

They would thank him in the morning.

The droning sound of police sirens take up their wailing in the distance; too far to be of concern, too far to be of any help to the kneeling man groaning at Shiro’s feet. 

Keith would stay, but he’s seen this act play out more times than he could count on his fingers. Toes included.

In a few minutes, Shiro will have Kolivan take over with the chain while Thace played support system.

Each wrong answer would result in two lashes. 

Each right answer would result in three. 

And while Shiro breathed through the recuperation, Keith would use the stall to slip out undetected and handle things for the betterment of Shiro’s sanity. Give the man some much needed room to breathe as the obligations closed in. 

Thace will have to be the one in charge of winding Shrio down in his absence.

Ended up being the only one, evidently, that looked up when Keith made his way to the emergency vehicle; brow raised in question. 

Keith shook Shiro’s phone.

“ _Ah_ ,” Thace nodded. He easily waved him off then. although not before motioning to his cheek and reminding Keith, _right_ , he had blood on his face. 

It takes five minutes to clean, really _clean_ his cheeks and ensure that no spatter was left unattended too in his haste. Then he tossed the wet wipes in the glove compartment, making a mental note to burn them immediately once he got back, and opened Lance’s most recent text so he knew where he could find the man. 

5308 Ballard Ave. 

Lance’s choice of location is much more surprising than his decision to reach out abruptly. Keith was expecting your average everyday Starbucks, maybe an easy going sub shop to fit Lance’s relaxing attitude. 

Instead, he found himself on all too familiar ground as the thought of Lance being a witch ran through his head.

Let him rephrase; it’s the same fucking coffee shop Shiro and him used for under the table arrangements. Quick move arounds of money and one stop exchanges with group connections. 

And Lance is already there and waiting with a half eaten muffin tracking crumbs along whatever it is he’s furiously highlighting. 

The evidence is all over his lower lip, just at the plump corner, and would serve Keith well as a teasing point if not for the pink tongue that darted out.

Keith pressed against the dividing wall and sidestepped a stumbling toddler that _ooh’d_ at his appearance and drew a ring of attention. He expected the waver in conversation to be enough to gather his targets curiosity, but Lance continued to take whatever frustrations he had out on the splayed documents in front of him. 

Oblivious as always.

The shifting sea of bodies provided Keith the cover he needed to blend and watch Lance in his own world for the first time since his initial encounter with the reporter. It also gave him the perfect opportunity to gauge the situation. Feel out the possibilities of why Lance had contacted them in the first place. 

There was definitely an edge to the man, a tense jerk to his scribbles as he ran his hand along a sheet and scratched out one sentence, then another. 

He trailed his violet eyes along the width of Lance’s shoulders; tracing the tension quietly. And no sooner had he done so did he find himself examining the less...important details. 

Thinly-wired oval framed glasses rested precariously on the bridge of the journalists’ nose, and the hunched form his spine had acquired made it so he was forced to continuously pushed them upright lest they slip off. 

So Lance wore contacts?

Keith watched as Lance took another bite of his muffin, set it down, and suffered a rather alarming jolt to his shoulder blades.

Instinct had him taking a step forward, but the shakey cough that dislodged from Lance’s chest reassured him of his worst fears. 

Not that Keith was scared or anything. 

In fact, he found it quite endearing when Lance coughed into the crook of his shoulder, eyes tearing up as whatever piece of muffin got lodged and had him scrambling for the nearest glass of water. 

And by then, it’s too late to stop the fond chuckle that escapes him. 

Lance’s gaze catches his through the criss cross of bodies and Keith feels his world tilt sideways. 

There’s no time to prepare; not when he’s spent so much of it drooling like some horny teenager. So he squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and sauntered to Lance’s table trying to feign nonchalance. Work back to equilibrium. 

“Keith?” Lance squeaked; his eyes searching the jingling cafe doors with a hint of anticipation. “Where’s Takashi?”

Keith shrugged, “Not comin’,” and quickly added, “That a problem?” 

Lance blinked slowly, the blues of his eyes seemingly ten times larger before his brow furrowed in concentration. It’s a cute little quirk Keith stored on file. 

“Of course not,” Lance finally got out. “I was just, expecting Takashi is all.” 

It’s a lame excuse. 

Not at all surprising given Lance’s game plan coming into this visibly crumbled right before Keith’s eyes. He watched as it swayed, weakened, then toppled flat against the cafe table with a loud clatter that had the journalist flinching despite himself. 

Keith caught it with a rake of his eyes and jarred the man further with the flap of his jacket. There’s no telling how long he’ll be here, so he prepared the best way he knew how. 

With his jacket hooked against the support of his too small chair and his ass down into the squatty seat so he was on Lance’s level. Even took a moment unbuttoning the collar of his shirt to get some much needed air while Lance hastily shoved whatever he’d been marking up back into his work bag.

“Did you order?” Keith asked, already dragging a finger along the menu pinned beneath Lance’s elbow. 

The man adjusted the rest of his arm accordingly and, still in a daze, responded, “No. I-I didn’t, but-”

“Great,” Keith chirped. “Then what do you want?” 

Muffin forgotten, Lance focused his entire attention on Keith as he waved to the nearby waitress and started firing off a list of wants and needs. There’s no real reason for it other than he’s searching for ways to kill time. To keep Lance’s mind reeling, and working, and skipping from one thing to the next so whatever it was he felt coming into this dissipated completely. 

He’d seen the stirring fire upon his arrival. 

Lance knew something. 

“And for you, sir?” 

Keith motioned with his finger, “Go heavy on the cream and heavy on the sugar,” before dismissing her quickly and seeking Lance out in the muddled chaos of the crowded conversation. 

“Did,” Lance stopped. He worried his lower lip between his teeth for a moment before he seemed to think better and looked away.

Just not before Keith caught the blooming blush and by then, he’s absolutely enraptured. 

It was greedy. The way in which Keith ravished the dusky pink traveling along Lance’s pulse point and higher. Going as far as to kiss the tips of the man’s ears. The only place Keith had neglected to nibble on. 

It made him ache to reach out; fingers bitting into the crease of his arms and threatening his composure to the one man intuitive enough to pick it out if he so much as breathed wrong. 

Because yeah. Keith was observative as well. 

Though it wouldn’t take a genius to see something he’d said had made the man fluster. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Keith demanded.

But he doesn’t mean it like that. It bites out more than he’d have liked and Keith payed for it in the form of a deep set frown. Lance’s lips twitched downward and pulled taut, all previous bashfulness and uncertainty evaporating in the stirring heat in his eyes. 

Again, whatever Keith had said had gone right over his head and left him completely and utterly defenseless against the Cuban he so desperately needed distracted. 

Though this could work too.

“You want to know what’s wrong with me?” Lance said darkly. “You _really_ want to know?” 

_Yes._

_Wait-_

Lance leaned close and Keith was blindsided by the full body tremor that waged war on his body; punched the air from his lungs and left him absolutely wrecked. It’s gotta be something in the raging ocean, something in the way the lithe muscle in Lances shoulders shifted predatory and challenged Keith like no one had ever done without a death wish. 

And Keith was here for it. God was he here for it. 

Watching Lance through tinted windows was one thing, but receiving the brunt of his poorly aimed frustration had his nerves singing in wonder. The testament to his restraint bringing forth a round of emotions Lance could only wish to understand if he knew.

If _only_ he knew.

“Bring it.” 

Lance immediately dragged his chair forward. “What’s wrong with _me_ is that I have had it up to _here_ with your _shit_ , _Mullet_.” A few patrons turn to look just in time for Keith to grin; something wolfish and taunting which only served to rile Lance more, and, in turn, rile Keith more. “I’ve spent every day this month getting my ass handed to me at work because you two are the most-- _stubborn_ sources I have ever dealt with in my entire career. Do you know what kinds of strings I’ve had to pull since I met you? Do you, Keith?” 

“Tell me, Lance,” he encouraged. 

Lance’s glasses tilted. “Every day since day one you two have done nothing but fuck with my head,” he accused. “Admit it, Mullet. You didn’t trust me then, you obviously don’t trust me now. So why don’t you make this easy on yourself and just tell me the truth.” 

Wait. Timeout. Back up.

“Tell you the truth?” Keith scowled. “Lance, what the hell are you talking about?” 

Because yeah, he’d been following up until that point. Figured the man had reached his moral limit and needed to scold them for their actions lest he explode with guilt. But obviously, Keith had missed something. 

Again. 

Which is really why he needed, “My sources, Keith,” Lance spat, finally spelling it out. “You took my sources. Didn’t you?”

And that changes everything.

Lance will never know just how close he was to death today. Will never understand just how relieved Keith is that he was the one that took his invitation and not Shiro. 

Killing him wouldn’t be a question had Takashi come. 

At least with Keith, he still had a say. 

“Lance-”

“Don’t _lie_ , Keith,” he whispered. Whatever ire that had bubbled up seemed to drain from him as he sulked about the table quietly. “Look, I get that you want me to keep away from the Holt’s, alright? And I would never overstep my boundaries like that on _or_ off the job.” 

Keith sucked in a breath and tried to think of a way around this. Make it so they both came away from this unscathed.

“We didn’t think you would, Lance. Honestly.”

Bullshitting it is.

And do it like his life depended on it.

Or Lances.

Which it does. 

“So you were just fucking with me?” Lance asked. “Did you do it to test me? To see if I would keep my promise?” And before Keith can reassure him of anything more, a look of horror crashes down faster than he can stall.

“Was it some big distraction, then?” Lance wavered. “Were you and Takashi just waiting for me to let my guard down? Was any of it-” Once his voice cracks, so does Keith’s restraint. 

It’s the perfect opportunity for him to manipulate the situation. Keep Lance focused on his blooming hurt and not their betrayal with the sources. _That_ , he could patch shitty and hide beneath the rejection Lance had felt after that night. It could be the perfect cover.

Key word; could.

But only if Keith had the strength.

Which he doesn’t.

“No,” Keith blurted. “No, no, Lance. Hey. C’mere.” 

Lance doesn’t argue much when Keith coaxed him up out of his seat and grabbed their jackets. He has the right mind to toss down a roll of tens and shields Lance’s tear streaked face from those curious of their conversation. They could choke for all he cared. 

Right now, he felt it important to get Lance somewhere secluded before the man closed himself off completely and made a run for it. 

“Lance,” Keith prodded; herding the reporter against the brick wall of the outside coffee shop. “Lance, look at me,” he said again. And when that garnered no reaction, he tried, “C’mon, sharpshooter.” 

 _Ah._ He moved. 

Lance glanced up and rubbed the sleeve of his sweater beneath his nose. “Don’t call me that,” he sulked. Curiosity must win out, though, because it’s quickly followed with, “Why sharpshooter?” 

Keith grinned, one far gentler, before leering into Lance’s space and tapping a finger against his ribcage soothingly. “Cuz when you came, it hit right on tar-”

“ _Keith,_ ” Lance whimpered sadly. 

The glaze of tears was already coming back and Keith cursed in his haste to hold them off just a bit longer. Not the time for jokes. Got it.

“There wasn’t an ulterior motive,” he rushed. Lance looked away but he didn’t try to move so Keith pressed on. “I promise you, Lance,” he stressed. “We would never intentionally hurt you like that. We wanted it.”

“You also wanted my le-”

“We never touched your leads, Lance.”

There were far too many stipulations if he tried anything more than this. Dancing around the question would only lead to more questions, and a simple admission would make them look bad. So he plays on human error; pushes at Lance’s soft spot and tries to look sympathetic the best he can.

“We were in a rush that morning. Shiro and I were trying to find a way to hold off our appointments, at least until you woke up, and Ulaz was scrambling around cleaning what he could. There’s a chance he tipped your bag over when he moved it and something spilled out.”

There it fucking is. 

Lance will either take the bait, or see through Keith’s lies and personally end this game not halfway through.

Keith would rather not have to hurt him, but if that searching look in his blue eyes failed to dissipate, bringing him to the side alley was a smart choice all things considering.

C’mon, Lance. 

 _C’mon_.

“Fine,” Lance relented. His shoulders sagged in defeat as the explanation took hold in his mind, if only for a little bit. It’s temporary satisfaction but he has hope this will all blow over soon enough. 

So he raised a brow and fit his body flush with Lance’s in silent victory.

“Fine?” Keith tested.

And when Lance nodded reluctant but willing, Keith felt him grow heavy into the intimate hug as he was wrapped up nice and careful. 

Come to think of it, Keith isn’t sure if he’s ever touched Lance without the daze of heated passion before.

It gives him a whole new incentive to explore the lines of the Cuban’s back, the dimples just above his ass that are perfect for handling should Keith ever get the chance again. And the relieved shivers Lance’s body emit are so innocent and familiar, he can’t help but feel shame knowing he had to consider killing him.

Twice. 

It’d be such a waste, really.

“You’re still an asshole,” Lance muttered somewhere along his throat. 

Keith let out a responding bark of laughter and pulled back just enough to catch the questioning glint in Lance’s blue gaze. 

God, he would regret this in the morning.

“Tell you what,” Keith said. “I’ll make you a promise.” 

One too good to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!  
> I am so, so happy I finally got the chance to update although I didn’t intend to on this holiday. So if you’re single and lonely like me, I hope this fills some of the void.  
> I went a little overboard with this chapter, mostly because I felt there was a lot that needed explaining and that you guys deserved more for the wait.  
> So I hope it wasn’t a complete flop.  
> For one, I really wanted Hunk and Pidge to meet. I also got to develop more of Pidge and Lances relationship which I thought was super worth while.  
> Not as much Shiro but I wanted to make sure that his background wasn’t lost for the plot. Sexy time was fun and all, but Keith and Shiro are still dangerous af.  
> Although Keith might be a bit softer than we thought. This is the first time I wrote from his view and I really hope it was okay. I kinda wanted to see what he thought of Lance, especially since Lance was really stuck in his head this chapter. I mean, it would suck waking up alone after everything, right? That’s gotta sting.  
> There’s a lot more I’d like to evaluate on but I don’t want to get annoying.  
> I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! It means so much to me that you guys still like it.  
> Please don’t hesitate if you have questions. I’d love to hear from you!


	13. System Reset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick brag here. I actually got art for this fic and I’m out of my mind with happiness. Please check it out here, http://rukiyo.tumblr.com/post/171137367075/rukiyo-a-blur-of-black-and-white-moved-beyond THEY DID SUCH AN AMAZING JOB!  
> And do read to the end of my bottom note, I have a super important question!

It’s really too good to be true. 

If the wince of a smile on Keith’s usually stoic face wasn’t enough to go by, then it was the well known fact that Lance never had a streak of luck this good in his entire career.  

In his entire _life_.

The stars just didn’t align that way for him. 

But to spare reader confusion, he can tell by the pull of Keith’s smile. The way the corners hit a barrier.

Lance could spot it better than anyone else because, sadly, it was the same reluctant grin he pulled anytime he promised early deadlines to Iverson; ones they both knew he couldn’t keep.

Three days? Ha, more like three _months_. 

Nice try.

And it’s this connect the dot observation that gives Lance enough confidence to level Keith with his own look of skepticism and gently knock his knuckles to the man’s forehead. 

“You don’t have the clearance to promise me that,” he said. “Do you?” 

Keith flashed a look of sharp bewilderment, the whole left side of him sagging at an angle as he tried to recover from what Lance realized is an obvious blow to his manhood. 

But anyone with _eyes_ could see Takashi had the man by his balls.

“Like hell he does!” Keith snarled; something feral and deep as he stabbed his fingertip to the point of Lance’s nose. 

“Let me burn this into that pretty little head of yours, McClain,” Keith growled, although the heat faulters in intensity when Lance’s eyes go cross. “Last I checked, I was still in charge of running this company.”

And Lance nodded because, _yeah_ , he knew that. “But Takashi is _also_ head. _And_ he’s taller. So it makes it a little hard to believe you actually have the power-”

“I do,” Keith ground out between clenched teeth. “And if Shiro has a problem with it, he can kiss my ass.” 

Lance doesn’t know why Keith flinches, but as soon as the words settle, there’s instant regret laced deep in his violet eyes. A panic, of sorts, that has his head immediately swiveling to their left, easing off to the right, and tilting downward some as whatever initial start he had died down.

Weirdo.

That was weird, right? He can’t be the only one.

“This Wednesday,” Keith blurted. Color had graced the high of his cheeks and filled in where nervous panic had drained it pale. “We’re adjusting deadlines at Site 9. So your ass better be there, 2:45-” 

“Sharp, 860 Terry Ave.” Lance rattled off Keith’s earlier rant verbatim. “And if I’m late-”

“Don’t be,” Keith ordered. 

Although it could definitely be a threat. 

Despite that, Lance would say this meeting had gone much better than he originally thought it would. Keith had been a surprise, sure. But Takashi was a busy man. He was certain to have more important things to deal with and couldn’t cater to Lance’s needs twenty-four-seven. That was perfectly fine. 

Interacting with Keith was something Lance had to get used to eventually; even welcomed it as a challenge.

A fiery, sarcastic, _stupidly_ attractive challenge that wouldn’t know personal space even if it punched him in the throat.

“Please tell me you didn’t punch him in the throat.” 

Lance looked up from his small pyramid of eggrolls and stared at Hunk’s woeful face. 

Oh, right. 

Apologies for the time jump. Reminiscing had a tendency to do that when the writer couldn’t  think of better dialogue. One second you’re there, the next you’re here. 

Here being the small nook beside his kitchen with Hunk straight across from him and Allura watching to his right.

Like some cliche sitcom characters waiting for that shitty laugh track.

Lance cursed as his eggroll broke free of his chopsticks and took a dunk in his soy sauce. “I didn’t punch him in the throat, Hunk,” he reassured. “That would’ve been out of line.” 

“But screwing your intel isn’t?” 

Cue the shitty laugh track.

Both Hunk and Lance violently hush Allura, spittle on their lips, as they turned their attention to the living room and lifted up a bit to see where Pidge sat screaming into a headpiece. Lord knew what she’d downloaded in Lance’s absence, but the girl seemed content enough to shout, _die_ , _die_ , _die_ , for hours on end while they conversed over their take-out. 

“Okay,” Lance whispered. “First, there will be no speaking of my past affairs in front of Katie. _Allura_?” He looked to the woman and didn’t continue until she swallowed her potsticker and nodded all wide eyed. “And second, I did not _screw_ my intel, they screwed me.” 

“Same difference, love.” 

Hunk raised a brow. “Is it?” 

An explosion rippled through the surround-sound speakers and the three of them watched Pidge jump up from the couch and invite someone to ‘ _suck it_ ’ with a victorious pelvic thrust toward the TV. 

Lance quickly intervened, telling the girl that if she was going to be vulgar than she might as well scratch the censorship all together before settling back into his chair with a sigh.

“It actually went a lot better than I expected,” Lance murmured; a finger to his temple. “Keith was—he was really sweet.” 

Allura rolled the ice in her glass and hummed. “Probably because you broke down and started ugly sobbing in front of the poor man.”

Hunk let out a belly laugh that triggered color in Lance’s cheeks and he quickly retaliated by confiscating an array of friend shrimp and pork as compensation. 

The thing was, Allura wasn’t too off the mark. 

Keith showing up in place of Takashi had thrown off his game, we’d been over that, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t bounce back from. He reminded himself why we was there in the first place, added fuel to the fire that was his anger when it came to his sources, figured Keith would be easier to yell at because the man got on his goddamn nerves just by breathing. 

Takashi would’ve definitely looked like a kicked puppy and instilled guilt.

Keith on the other hand, just looked twice as wild and even egged him on; the fucker.

So why had he crumbled so easily? 

Lance dug around a few stray green onions and worried his lower lip between his teeth thoughtfully. 

He had gone in with unresolved feelings. 

That’s all it was. 

And, sure, he’d experienced his fair share of one night stands, had at least one run-in with an ex-lover that talked his way into his pants and dipped out the next morning before they could actually talk. 

But that was the beauty of it. Lance never had the chance to _talk_ to them. Most times, he just ended up nursing a carton of orange juice while Hunk stayed and offered emotional support.

Not that he needed it anymore. Those days were far behind him. 

At least, they had been. 

Until that Saturday proved to Lance that waking up alone never got any easier. 

Lance didn’t think he asked for much. He craved intimacy. Wanted to share the morning sluggishness. To come into himself with the warmth of another within reaching distance and not ringing distance. Had hoped to see at least one or two sets of eyes blinking blearly as lips twitched lazily into a dazed smile.

He was a morning person.

But he guessed most people he ended up with weren’t.

 _Um_.

“In all honesty,” Allura started, “It was quite rude of them to do what they did, love.” 

Hunk agreed, “Really rude,” and scooped up another mouthful of fried rice. 

To be fair, Ulaz had done what he could to tide Lance over that morning, but anyone could see the man had done it more out of pity than anything else. It wasn’t his fault Lance had kept himself submerged in anger after he noticed they’d swiped his sources. 

Ended up coming to some rather unpleasant conclusions by his lonesome as he was left to read between the lines and _assume_.

He had become nothing but a pawn and they had moved him beautifully. 

All they had to do was to say a few empty words, play it up real nice and _act_ like they were interested. And once they had him raw, vulnerable, and so fucking dependent, they saw their opening and went for it.

How could he be mad when it was their turn to counter? 

Lance just needed to take the loss and think of a better maneuver for next time. 

Next time.

Meaning; it wasn’t like Keith and Takashi were out of the picture after all that, no. Lance would have to face them eventually and he did so in a time frame that gave him no time to hide his hurt with the anger he so badly wanted to hold onto. 

And Keith had only needed to open his mouth for Lance to break. 

Allura rolled up her napkin and pushed her plate aside with a low burp. “Kogane swore he didn’t take your sources, though, correct?”

“That’s what he said,” Lance confirmed. “And we all know it could be a lie. But I’m not dismissing this being my fault completely, either. I could have very well left my bag open when Ulaz moved it. The document was right at the top.”

“Which brings us right back to square one.” 

Innocent or guilty?

Keith had done a phenomenal job talking him down from leaning towards guilty, that was for sure.

The Ulaz scenario, although possibly untrue, played on human error in ways that were too common to dig into. Simple mistakes happened on the job like that. It wasn’t like he’d found the document shredded up in the trash. 

Hunk smiled. “He also kissed you.” 

“Again,” Allura added. 

And Hunk rolled a hand. “So technically, you’re being biased.” 

Shut up. All of you. 

No matter the rejection Lance had felt coming into their meeting, Keith had done quick work patching up the cracks and tears in his emotional state. He’d come equiped with everything Lance needed to feel like they were on equal ground again. That they were still okay and nothing was ruined. 

Takashi and Keith maybe even _liked_ him. 

Then Keith went and promised him the on site interview; a feat he thought he’d have to fight tooth and nail for and that wasn’t even the best of it.

Lance got surprised by a hug

Then again, who wouldn’t be when the man was nothing but a silent threat wrapped around an obnoxious ball of cocky.

“You didn’t seem to feel that way when he made out with you~” Hunk sang under his breath. 

Allura set her glass down with a loud, _thud_ , and gawked at Lance. “With tongue?” She hissed. 

“It was a _forehead_ kiss,” Lance hissed back.

It was _just_ a forehead kiss. 

Nothing scandalous like their past encounters, but still gut punching nonetheless. 

Keith had hit him with the endearing gesture too fast for Lance to really burn into his memory. The man was on him one second, coughing into his shoulder the next as he tried to hide his embarrassment beneath the sharp cut of his jacket.

“So Wednesday, then?” He had rushed; violet eyes finding anything  _but_  Lance.

And Lance, flushed to the tips of his ears, had nodded in a daze and stumbled a bit to watch as Keith quickly walked out onto the busy sidewalks and disappeared a blushing mess into the crowd. 

They wanted him. 

Keith said they _wanted_ him. 

“You’re done for.” 

“A complete goner.” 

“I can’t talk with either of you,” Lance muttered. “Seriously, why are we friends?” 

Hunk made a wounded sound and clutched at his chest but Lance didn’t give him the time of day.

He’d already let Pidge monopolize his attention and watched her small thumbs mash down on the game controller at a lighting speed; the tip of her tongue peaking out at the corner in concentration. 

Lance vowed to not let his feelings blind him from what was really important. Because when it came down to the nitty-gritty, Takashi and Keith were the ones behind Matt’s disappearance. He just knew it. 

“So, Wednesday.” 

Lance turned back at Allura’s inquire and threw in the towel with his dinner. “Keith said I’m more than welcome to start interviewing workers once I’m on site.” 

“Which is perfect because then you won’t have to watch what you say as much,” Hunk pointed out.  

Meaning; no more supervision.

“I’ll get something,” Lance stated. “Someone there will want to talk me. But I _have_ to make headway on this project, guys. I just have to.”

Allura offered an encouraging smile that Hunk matched in tandem before looking over to Pidge.

She’d let out a childish snort, tossed her head back, and vibrated with it as it escalated into full blown laughter. 

It caused a twinge in Lance’s chest; his throat tightening with emotion.

“She shouldn’t have to wait anymore.”

 

* * *

 

Wednesday comes between a dose of Ibuprofen and a bathroom break sometime at 2 a.m that morning. We’ll pretend like Tuesday didn’t even happen because, in reality, nothing really did.

At least, nothing that will hold your attention for more than two minutes. 

But for the sake of filling in holes- remember last chapter?- Lance will so kindly recap on what he did after the odd phase out a few paragraphs above. 

Pidge had conked out a little after Hunk and Allura took their leave, and their leftovers, which left him to shut down his apartment by his lonesome.

Not that he minds.

If there was one thing Lance was trained for, it was carrying younger siblings to their room after they fell asleep on the couch. 

So Lance is genuinely grateful for the taste of nostalgia as he carried Pidge to his guest room and shut her door as quietly as possible. Tip toed his way down the hall and finally got down to business.

The next sixteen hours would be non-stop preparation until he passed out and woke to the blare of his alarm. Screw beauty sleep, this required his undivided attention.

Pack of brand new tapes; check.

Pens and pencils; check. 

A will to live; check. 

Lance _had_ to be at the top of his game if he wanted to keep Takashi and Keith on his good side. He would need to be vigilant; careful.

There wouldn’t be any time for messing around if he was going to pick out the right worker to interview. If he botched this, chose the wrong one motivated to squeal, Takashi and Keith would know exactly what he’d been doing not a day after. 

No need to panic, but this was some real shit. 

Pidge is still blissfully unconscious to the world when he peaks in to see where Blue was borderline suffocating her. He pauses, just in case, tilted his head to the side and let out a relieved huff when the teen sucked in a garbled breath that was no doubt, filled with cat hair. 

Katie’s still alive; check. 

And he’s off. 

The construction site is only a thirty minute drive from his quaint little apartment in Capitol Hill. It’s right on the water, actually, sitting flush with Lake Union and its neighboring park. 

Lance had taken one of Allura’s story updates on the park last fall when a string of sexual assaults caught fire on the trails. He blabbed about the increased security, talked about the intensity of it all, and made sure to comment on the stabilized condition of one of the male survivors.

Easy money.

Staring up at the looming criss cross of steel bars now, and Lance could only _wish_ this could be that easy. 

Nothing was ever easy, though.

The site is in a state of chaos when he finally managed his way onto the property. Some guy at the front gate had watched him pull into a feux parking spot and struggle with his bags before holding out a hand and grumbling, “I.D, please,” coffee breath and all.

Workers shouted a generous height above, conversing this way and that as dust erupted from dropped cement bags. Lance could see a swaying pipe getting hauled some twenty feet up by a female working the taut rope vigorously.

He’s out of his element. 

Not even the too loose hard hat helps to make him fit in. 

But at least Shiro is in a similar way.

“Takashi!”

Lance spotted the familiar bulk of the businessman's figure and waved an arm high in greeting. 

The movement must be jarring though because he feels the helmet on his head tilt off to the right and he’s forced to stop in his haste to keep the damn thing stable. Which, of course, leads to him scrambling to right his bag as the momentum jostled the strap free and had it dropping into the mess of sand and dirt. 

Great.

It’s a losing battle, but he looks up just in time to see the larger man brighten to an almost blinding degree and do a little shake of his hands in surprise.

“Lance!” Takashi beamed; quickly dropping whatever conversation he was having to meet Lance with open arms and a crushing hug. “Hi,” he said. “Hello,” he said again.

And Lance’s brain must short circuit because he doesn’t remember reaching his arms up around Shiro’s neck and returning the gentle squeeze on autopilot.

But he does. 

And then he inhales to cleanse his mind with pine and just, _Takashi_. 

“How are you?” Takashi said suddenly. Lance felt their hard hats bump and pulled back just enough to see steely gray eyes searching him insistently.  “Did you make it home alright? Ulaz wasn’t too much trouble, was he?”

Lance smiled under the rain of questions and  took it upon himself to pull apart completely. Takashi’s hand lingered near despite the separation and Lance made sure to stay close enough that he was still within reach should the man want to hug again. The staffs stares, however...

“I’m great,” Lance grinned. “And I made it home just fine, thanks to you guys. Tell Ulaz that for me.” 

Takashi’s smile twitched something relieved and he let out a quick sigh to match that helped lower the tension in his shoulders. “Of course, Lance,” he murmured. “And I wanted to be the one to drive you, I did. I’m so sorry-”

“That you have a work life?” Lance teased. “It’s fine. Really, it is.” 

Takashi looked stricken still and snagged at his lower lip. “It’s just,” he began. “Keith said-”

And Lance wants to nip that right then and there. Can already see the gray of Shiro’s eyes peeking out beneath his lashes looking exactly like the kicked puppy Lance knew he would.

”You two wanted to stay,” Lance assured gently. “He said you tried to. No ulterior motive either, right?” 

Takashi shook his head, “God, no,” and watched Lance laugh with wide eyes brimming with eagerness.

“Then we’re good,” Lance decided. “If anything, we’re great. I need to thank you for letting me do this so soon. I know you and Keith are busy with repairs, and damages, and I’m here on top of it.” 

Shiro gave a half-smile so charming, Lance felt his words trail off so he could study it. 

“You’re probably the only good thing in all this chaos, to be honest.”

And Lance _burns_. 

Takashi took distraction in the bustling ground floor before fixing his eyes on the blush peeking out from beneath Lance’s white shirt. He knew he should’ve worn something neck high, but he wanted to go for trustworthy when talking to new intel.

The blue cardigan would help with that, but it would be absolutely useless against well trained eyes.

Speaking of-

“Keith should be around here somewhere,” Takashi said suddenly, as if reading the question on his lips. “You can go look for him if you want, but before that.” Lance felt his hard hat wiggle and Takashi made a sound low in his throat. “Who gave this to you?” 

Lance glanced up before meeting Takashi’s concern with a quick shrug. “The guy up front? I just figured he didn’t have my size.” 

Another grunt, “This is Thace’s,” and the pressure leaves along with Takashi’s outstretched palm. There’s a shout for him, _Mr. Shirogane_ , and his eyes trail upwards to where a young man is leaning against a wheelbarrow. 

Duty calls. 

“I’ll get you a hat that fits,” Takashi says in a rush. “Until then, you can go see if you can find Keith. He can tell you where it’s best to start interviewing, okay?” 

Lance threw up a thumb that he doesn’t think Takashi catches before the man is off and running towards a staircase. He notices Shiro had ditched the coat beneath the rare sun and had rolled up the sleeves of his grayish dress shirt. A tie was null and void as well, but Lance wondered why the man had suddenly changed his usual attire. 

Didn’t he usually wear a black turtle-

“On your left!” 

Lance dodged the blunt end of a steel pipe and offered a sheepish apology to the disgruntled man heaving forward. He’s in the heart of it all standing around and decides it’d be best to move his stuff out of the way before someone tripped and sued. 

From the looks of it, there were three floors already walkable for whatever structure it was they were building. A small break room had been tacked on somewhere to the south and offered a perfect reprieve for when he got everything he needed for the day. 

But before that, he needed to start his observations.

He steers clear of Takashi and Kogane on the off chance they try to help and pair him up with a worker that thinks he actually _cares_ about construction life.

Keith’s been interacting more on the third floor and Takashi’s ended up on ground level about three times now, so Lance wanders between the second and first for what feels like hours. 

The noise doesn’t stop. 

It’s practically impossible to snag anyone he’s got his eye on for longer than two minutes and the sound alone is grating the shit out of his tapes. The playback is absolutely awful, just a jumbled mess of screaming and beeping, so there’s no point hauling it around anymore. 

He’ll just have to do this the hard way. 

On the bright side, Lance had taken good photos for Iverson to run when he finished the story. He also got a headcount and marked whoever he thought looked pissed enough to go off on a rant without even thinking. Those were the kinds of people that didn’t care about losing their job, they just wanted their voice heard. 

So, by the end of this, Lance just might leave with three solid quotes. 

It’s the little things, guys.

Lance is in the middle of digging for a mechanical pencil when the door to the break room swings open. He would settle for a pen, but ink was bound to bleed if it got wet. That was journalism 101.

“You’re telling me they couldn’t look at the damn forecast?” 

Lance paused in his search to look up at the tall female wiping her face down with a rag. He’d seen her on his way in directing a trolley, and she would’ve stood out as a good interviewee too if not for the heated glare she shot him when he accidentally stepped in her line of sight. 

But unlikely people were sometimes the best people. 

“This shit shouldn’t be put on us without fucking overtime pay. What are we, their slaves?” 

The taller of the two, some guy Lance thought he saw up on the second floor, leaned next to the woman and got his share of water from the tank with a shake of his head. “That’s how it goes sometimes, Nyma,” he tutted. “You better watch what you say before Thace hears you again.” 

And that’s his in. 

If these two were willing to share gossip under the threat of a higher up, being careful so that _said_ higher up didn’t eavesdrop? Then they would be willing to give their two cents to Lance. An outsider privy to bias. 

People wanted to provide first impressions before first impressions could be made. They would want Lance to think what they did if he played innocent.

“Have you two worked here long?” 

Lance met the woman's, _Nyma’s_ , eyes and offered a small smile she studied quietly. He wants to start with her first because she’s the most mouthy. 

The one with the attitude.

Nyma looked him up and down. “Who are you?” She huffed.

“Lance McClain,” he replied easily. Then he rifled about his work bag some more to seem nonchalant. As if he were just making mindless conversation. “I’m running an article on what life is like in construction work for students in the STEM program.”

It rolled off so easy now, didn’t it? Remember some ten chapters ago? Back when we were all just babies? 

Look at us now. 

Lance caught the cautious flicker in the man’s features, an expression Nyma must ignore because she crosses her arms and leans a hip against the thin countertop.

“So what?” She asked. “You lookin’ to talk to us?”

And Lance tilted his head back and forth. “Only if you want to.” He shrugged. “If you don’t, I can just ask some of your friends out there. Have them tell me what they think about their awesome employers. The usual.” 

Nyma takes the bait. 

Lance can tell by the click of her jaw and the way her fingers ball tight. She doesn’t want anyone painting the superiors in a good light. Not when she’s so obviously pissed about their work orders. 

She sucks her teeth; contemplative. “What’s in it for me?” 

And Lance tells her, “Nothing.” Even spins in the honesty to paint a trusty picture because, “If it’s a hit, I’m sure you’ll get more interns signing up to pick up the slack around here.” 

Easy does it.

“We don’t have interns anymore.” The man spoke up.

Lance hurtled over the obstacle like it was nothing because he knew that. “But once we get this in print, you will. Trust me.” 

All they needed to do was trust him. 

Lance dropped the conversation and went back to searching for his pack of pencils. He heard Nyma whisper something between the safety of her clenched teeth, a steady hiss that cut off as soon as the man let out a digressing sigh, and had her turning toward him once more.

“This is Rolo,” Nyma gestured suddenly. 

Her eyes flicked upward, feigning disinterest, as she adjusted the cross of her arms and shifted over. And Lance raised his hand in response before wiggling his fingers at the man now named Rolo. 

That’s his invitation. 

“So why did such a popular internship program get vetoed?” Lance asked; diving in head first and hoping it’d be worth the risk. 

And it is because Nyma immediately rolled her eyes and examined the surprising length of her polished nails; utterly annoyed by the topic. “The kids were idiots,” she spat. “Liabilities. You know how many of those dumbasses I nearly ran over using the forklift?” 

Rolo smirked through Nyma’s complaints, his heel tapping along the linoleum before his eyebrow shot up in question. And Lance nodded, _yeah_ , _you_ , as he finished dragging his pen along the notepad. 

“Inexperienced, I would say.” Rolo shrugged. “Some of them were inattentive.” 

“And Matt was just the tipping point.” 

Nyma mutters it for only them to hear and Rolo nodded his agreement before he relaxed against the countertop with a hum; seemingly unbothered by the intensity that takes presens in Lance’s gaze. 

He can’t have a repeat of his last interview, he just can’t. 

Lance needed to steel himself before he tipped them off with his nerves. He could already feel his hands start to shake, so he started by setting his pen aside and hitting record on his device. Then he supported his hand under his jaw and leaned a bit to mimic their own loose posture; a slight pout to his lips. 

“It’s a shame,” he murmured; internally cheered when his voice remained steady. 

And he’s made it so such a comment could be applied to the fact Matt was missing, _or_ the fact that the internship was discontinued. Hell, it was a shame they were working overtime without pay. Everything he’s said is applicable, but not locked in. 

That’s why Rolo nodded along, “Real shame,” and grieved into his coffee. “He was a good kid. ‘Lotta potential.”

“Potential to eat every Taco Bell out of business maybe,” Nyma bitched. 

And part of Lance wants to defend Matt on behalf of Pidge, but he forces a laugh instead and gets Nyma to preen for his effort. 

“I’m sure those Seattle big shots will find ‘em soon enough,” Rolo continued “They seemed pretty motivated.” 

Lock it down.

Lance tapped a finger to his jaw and cleared his throat; marked this spot on his tape so he knew what was vital. “Those the investigators your bosses hired?”

Because Pidge had said Kogane hired private investigators through them for the case. He remembered that specifically because every investigator they had run into had been sketchy in ways he couldn’t comprehend. And Keith had _hired_ them. Which is why he had reason to believe they were covering this shit up. 

But Rolo shook his head, _no_ , and shrugged a shoulder again. “We ain’t hear nothing about that, kid. Just that some criminal investigators from the department had taken it up. Could be though,” he pondered. 

“They sure have the money for it,” Nyma grumbled. 

And it’s obvious. For those of you who are critical thinkers, it’s annoying how apparent this slip up is on Kogane’s part. _Again_. 

Why wouldn’t they share such a matter with their employees, people that had  _worked_ with Matt and saw him weekly, like they had done with Pidge? Why would Kogane tell the Holt’s that they had hired private investigators to take on the case when it was clear that that might not even be true? Not when those detectives pushed aside the sister of the missing person and kept all evidence locked away spewing some ‘classified’ bullshit. 

Had Takashi and Kogane actually hired investigators to help find Matt, they would’ve told their staff and Pidge of the advancement in the case. There wouldn’t be two conflicting stories talking Seattle homicide and hired professional. 

They told Pidge that to shut her up. 

Lance can only write so fast as the pieces start fitting, one after another. It’s incriminating, it’s hard hitting, and it’s another leap forward. He needed to talk to that investigator as soon as possible; sends Hunk a heads up to get him started before he cut his recording and finished his notes. 

“Did you happen to—ah.”

 _Shit_.

Rolo and Nyma had filtered out during his mental fit and had begun making their way to the directing head that was already instructing them from the second floor. He wouldn’t bother hovering about them anymore, what with the information he managed, but he realized he never got anonymous permission. 

Journalism 101, guys. 

It’s really not this hard. 

“Hey!”

Lance stumbled out into the zig-zag of rushing bodies; waving his arm like a mad man in order to get the two’s attention where they had stalled by the stairs. He sidesteps a paint can, avoids the drag of insulation, and someone shouts, _incoming_ , before a line of rope falls loose. 

“Rolo!” Lance called, catching his breath and the man’s eye over a yellow hard hat. “Hey,” he strained.

Another clang if metal vibrated through his feet and the sound of spinning wheels took up an obnoxious chorus behind him.  

Rolo looked to be in the midst of saying something, but Lance fought over the noise fearing he would miss his chance and lose everything.

“Your quotes!” He gestured. “Is it okay if I use you two as anonymous-” 

Sources?

Persons?

Potatoes?

Lance will never know and neither will you. 

He _does_ know, however, that there is intense pressure, the sting of separating skin, and a comedic _'thunk’_  that rattles his entire skull and has his teeth clacking together from the force. 

It’s a crashing wave from that point on.

Lance felt his limbs shut down under the dragging sweep of _heavy_ ; the feeling overwhelming his eyes last as they rolled back into his head and spared him the sight of his body meeting unforgiving ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anotha one.  
> I got hit with a snow day so here’s an update!  
> Shiro and Keith are sparse throughout this chapter but I promise the next one will make up for it 110%.  
> Until then, Lance is really starting to get somewhere with Matt’s case. Now that he’s got some pretty incriminating accounts from Rolo and Nyma, it’s definitely time he look into Pidge’s encounters with those investigators.  
> But he’s got some incredibly solid quotes and Shiro and Keith better bring it because the odds are stacking against them.  
> -IMPORTANT-  
> I’m super pumped to start the next chapter but I have a super important question. If you guys have the time, would you rather have Keith be the first one to get it on with Lance, or would you prefer Shiro?  
> Spoiler alert: there will be smut next chapter.  
> Thank you guys for reading! I hope to have some more up soon!


	14. Inhale (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: I promised smut this chapter and I lied. BUT BEFORE YOU STONE ME, IT WILL BE HAPPENING IMMEDIATELY. I moved recently, didn’t have WiFi, and just got out on break so I finally had time to update. I was heavily encouraged to do Shance development and I didn’t feel like I could do that in a single chapter so this is PART I for a reason. Part II will be coming very shortly. No month long wait I swear. Thank you for your patience and enjoy!

The sound of Lance’s body hitting unforgiving ground is nothing compared to the sound of Shiro’s snapping rational. 

Loud enough that over thirty pairs of eyes trace the sound back to the emitting source and, despite their bravery, glaze with overwhelming regret as the magnitude of their achievement made itself known. 

Be it a step back or a single deafening gulp, Shiro can see where the unease has begun to fester in the anxious fidgeting of his tense employees.

Evacuation has become imperative. Evacuation has become the dividing line between life and death itself. 

And someone in the crowd is lucky enough to clear it.

How, you might ask?

They leave.

The clang of a gate resonates around them, eyes flicker, and a silent debate ripples throughout the group as Shiro scoured the seemingly endless loop of faces both familiar and not. 

He’s looking for fear, he’s looking for pinched nerves; a guilty sweat. 

Shiro is looking for--

 _Him_. 

And _oh_ , is that distance laughable. Truly hysterical it is _that_ close. All it would take is three simple strides of Shiro’s long gait and he would have this fucker right where he wanted him. 

Just three. 

So close, Shiro can taste it. And _God_ , does he want to, but two hands slam flat against his chest, push at the quivering muscle charged with deadly intent, and trigger a bark of his name that stops him before he can even make good on his wants.

He snarls, completely unhinged, and feels his nostrils flare in challenge when Keith- of course it’s Keith- refused to step down with his own growl of resistance. 

He objects, “No, Shiro,” and has to adjust the placement of his footing with the way the larger man is heaving against him. 

Because in the grand fucking scheme of things, Shiro had a job to do. A duty. Lance had been wounded by one of his own and that was a matter that needed reconciliation _immediately_. He wouldn’t just stand by and allow his people to think even a shred of this was acceptable.   

They had to pay their dues. They just had to. 

“And you’re right,” Keith agrees. “Shiro, you are _so_  fucking right,” he insists further. “But Lance is hurt. He’s _hurt_ , Shiro. Look at me.”

Shiro looks; hears what Keith is saying, he does. Everything he’s telling him justified why he had every right to grab this guy by his worthless neck and beat him ‘till he saw the fucking solar system. Beat him ‘till he smelled _colors_. 

But once again, Keith is there, all wide eyes and panicked pallor with his fingers scrunched uncomfortably tight in the give of Shiro’s dress shirt and a wild streak burning rampant in his stare.  

“Takashi,” Keith pleads; desperate now. “Not here,” he tells him. “Not. _Here_.” 

Tension blooms in the absence of speech, monopolizing a span of seconds where even Shiro thinks himself incapable of a restraint that would allow him to walk away, right here, in this moment. 

Because he is _right there_ , dammit. Shaking like the bastard he was, mumbling sorry this, sorry that, _bullshit_. 

It makes him hurt. Physically pains Shiro in giddy little flares that burn agonizing along the socket where metal met flesh. He’s testing the strength of his hand, readying the chirping wires and shifting steel plates that would no doubt serve him well today and absorb any impending impact. 

Keith’s preparing for it, Shiro is more than prepared for it. God help the man on the receiving end because he would _never_ be prepared for it. 

And then Lance whimpers. 

Shiro has reached a point where he is willing to risk hours of paperwork, a hefty lawsuit, hell, he’s willing to have a possible murder on his hands -though it wouldn’t be his first, or his last, but damn would it feel so good- and then. Lance. _Whimpers_. 

It’s a soft thing; a subtle voicing of discomfort at most. But when it trails into something thin and absolutely wounded, Shiro feels his objective redirect and strongly urge him to get to Lance. 

Just get to Lance, Shiro.

And he does.

He’s dancing on the verge of hysterics when he finally drops to his knees, uncaring of the grit and dirt that cuts into the material of his pants and draws blood. He can only imagine how uncomfortable Lance felt, sprawled out along the ground with a head wound running God knows where along his skull. And there was already a pool of blood, not alarmingly big, but teetering on the verge of, making its debut at the left of the man's ear. 

It didn’t help that it was growing, either. 

“Lance,” Shiro punched out. He desperately wanted to touch the smaller man but he was quickly struck with a fear of accidentally hurting him further. So he hovers. “God, _Lance_. It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay, baby, I promise.” 

Feet scritch-scratch in the dirt behind him, a soft murmuring taking up chorus, and Shiro is only vaguely aware of his employees as they begin spidering out through the building and allow Keith his own moment to drop down to his knees beside him.

He must’ve called it. Which is understandable considering Shiro had no intentions of wasting even a second of his time on anyone or anything that wasn’t Lance right now.

Work could wait. 

“Shiro.” Keith nudged him, phone in hand and violet eyes allusive. He doesn’t say much else before he’s shoving Shiro aside and setting to work carefully arranging Lance into a less alarming position; his thin fingers trembling all the while.  

He can see the line is connected. That there’s no caller I.D. Two major problems that have Shiro seeking Keith out for answers and receiving a rushed, “I don’t know,” for his effort. 

It’s the final peak to his frustrations and Shiro feels his neck strain as he grit his teeth and barked out a quick, “ **What**.” 

A tongue clucks.

“Is that anyway to greet someone, Takashi?” 

And Shiro feels his stomach flip in recognition because he knows that voice.

Hates every fiber of his being when it continued, unchanged in it’s drawl. 

“It sounds as though you’ve found yourselves in quite the predicament. Unless your employee rang me frazzled for another reason.”

The voice breaks for a lighthearted laugh. “And if that _is_ the case, I have been poorly robbed of twenty dollars. I believe it was one of your associates, Ulaz isn’t it, that wagered me on the likes of hearing from you lot so soon. Five years _was_ a tad greedy, I suppose.” 

The same trailing chuckle that follows is deafening. One so painfully light that Shiro feels his throat clamp shut when he finally croaks, “Coran,” and receives a soft, “Takashi,” in return that has far too many emotions attached for his own good. For Lance’s own good. 

He swallows around the pressure. 

“Can I-” Shiro’s voice catches and he hates how he has to clear it more than once to gain traction. “ _If_ I meet you,” he rephrases. “How fast can you get us in?” 

Keith let out a throaty grunt and Shiro turned back to watch as the man began scraping his jacket to create a square of makeshift gauze that he hastily applied to the clumping flow at Lance’s temple. 

They watch his eyes roll with the contact, pupils trying their best to focus as he looked up at Shiro and let out a string of slurred gibberish that neither Keith nor him could even attempt to decipher. Then the smaller man sighed, heavy and relieved; as though he had just gotten a massive weight off his chest, and looked content to sit back and blink owlishly between Shiro and Keith. 

“I am already set up and waiting, my boy,” Coran informed him.

Shiro nodded, though he knew Coran couldn’t  see it, and looked up at Keith with a roll of a finger to say, _round up._

“I can get to your location in twenty, Coran,” Shiro said, trying for something strictly business and failing miserably. There’s still an edge to his words, a crack in his mask as he wobbled out, “I expect you to be there when I arrive.”

And Coran, loyal as ever, breathes every word of truth when he tells him, “Always,” and hangs up before Shiro has time to shatter completely. 

It’s a single promise with more value than one could know. One simple word that relieves Shiro of the vice around his lungs and has stress bleeding out of him in rivets. Insinuates itself in the nervous sweat at his nape and is purged in whatever absorbent material it’s unlucky enough to touch. 

Inhale. 

Exhale. 

Shiro pierces his lower lip with a canine because he is sorry. So, so incredibly sorry the entire time he’s sliding his hands under Lance’s back and heaving him into the safety of his arms as quickly as he can manage without hurting him. If he could avoid it, he would, but there’s no doubt that they needed to get Lance to a hospital as soon as possible before whatever damage he sustained became permanent. 

If that wasn’t the case already. 

“Have Thace come back and get his things,” Shiro instructed. He doesn’t get an immediate response, so he repeats himself briskly. “Keith, have Thace come back and grab Lance’s stuff.” 

“I heard you,” Keith gnashed, yanking the back door open and waving Shiro on impatiently. “Just lay him down. Just set him- alright. Okay. Awesome. Fan- _fucking_ -tastic, Shiro. Fuck.” 

A pale hand crammed up through Keith’s hair and yanked in a way that Shiro needed to put a stop to, right fucking now. 

Because they’re spiralling. Caught in a tailspin.

Lance hurt, Coran on top of it all, Shiro’s surprised he’s even functioning with the whirlwind of emotion coursing through him, let alone Keith.

It’s splitting him in two, is what it’s doing. 

Part of him wants nothing more than to drop Lance with Keith; to take off and do what should’ve been done the second he watched Lance collapse in front of him. But another part of him raged at the thought of abandoning the man when he desperately needed his help.

It’s a losing battle Shiro can’t fight on his own. He couldn’t have Keith, his support, leaving him alone in this. He had done his part calming Shiro like he’d done, now it was Shiro’s turn to do the same. 

So he pitches his voice as low and authoritative as he can manage before reaching out and grabbing his partner by the jaw.

“Keith,” Shiro eased, running his thumb along Keith’s cheek as he did so, and he stares deep into the man's vulnerable gaze when telling him, “Coran knows what he’s doing. He’s going to help us, okay?”

“Coran has never had a reason to help us, Shiro,” Keith burted shakily. “Why the fuck would he even want to after-”

“Stop.” Shiro squeezes; a simple warning. “Keith, I’m not going to bring you with me if you can’t calm down. You told me I needed to help Lance, right?” Keith nods. “I can’t do that if you’re going to get in my way of doing that. Tell me you can calm down.” 

Keith squirms. “Shiro-”

And Shiro shakes his head, _no_. “Tell me you can calm down or you can get the hell away from my car, Keith.” 

Shiro hits the nerve.

His arm jolts, pain follows soon after, and Shiro gradually feels that Keith has knocked his hand away; violet eyes burning through whatever puddle of weakness had leaked into them. 

That’s the Keith he knows.

That’s the Keith he _needs_.

“Just drive,” he snarled. 

Keith refuses to buckle himself in the event he needs to crawl back and tend to Lance. Shiro assures him that it isn’t necessary, he’s keeping careful tabs on the man through the mirror believe him, but Keith can’t stop fidgeting and Shiro almost drives them up the sidewalk he’s so distracting, so he personally reaches over and unhooks the buckle for his partner. 

“He’s dribbling,” Keith worried. 

Shiro glanced up and rode the brake, trying his best to take the corner as gently as humanly possible. 

“Is that normal?”

“I’m not a doctor, Keith.” 

Keith frowned. “I fucking get that, Shiro, but do you think it’s normal?”

 _No_. No, Shiro did not think it was normal. But Lance let’s out a soft grunt before he can tell Keith this and he’s squeezing his eyes shut tight against the streaming glare of the sun. 

“M’gonna thr’ up,” he slurs; blinking an eye open and adding a curious, “I th’nk,” that has Keith turning to Shiro for answers. For _anything_. 

“It might be normal,” Shiro decided. “You said it was a support beam?”

The traffic light flickered yellow and a car blared it’s horn off to their right as Shiro sped through the changed red and ignored the flash of light behind them that alluded to yet another ticket. 

What was three hundred dollars for a young man worth _millions_ to Shiro?

Keith reached back and ran his fingers along the damp of Lance’s forehead, a grim frown situated on his face. “It hit him so hard, Shiro,” he whispered. 

Shiro could only swallow thickly as he watched the speedometer rise. 

He never thought today would be the day he would end up trudging through old memories and facing past mistakes. Never thought today would be the day Lance would get downed by a goddamn bar of metal while under his supervision. The first and only day, mind you, that Lance and him had had a chance to speak after the shitshow that was their first real-- _anything_. 

“He’s going to hate me.” 

Keith looked up at his sudden outburst and leaned back “Lance?” He asked. “Shiro, it was an accident.”

“So was locking him out in the rain, Keith. So was the power outage, and the shitty mattress, and making him feel like we didn’t care. I mean, _Jesus_ , Keith. I’ve become more of a danger to him than he’s even been to-”

Tires squeal, Keith let’s out a warning shout, and Shiro curses as he slams on the breaks to avoid the oncoming cement truck speeding through the intersection. 

They lurch and Lance hiccuped as his body rolled with the abrupt movement and hit flat against the back seat.

“I’m sorry.” Shiro white-knuckled the steering wheel with a thin gasp that chokes him on the way out. “I’m so sorry, Lance. It’s okay. You’re alright, sweetheart. It’s okay.” 

Lance hiccuped again and whined, “N’kay,” as Shiro pressed on the gas slowly and tried to ignore Keith’s stare.

“You never said-”

“Because I couldn’t,” Shiro answered calmly. And when Keith’s gaze didn’t waver, he produced a wane smile. “ _You_ talked to him, Keith.” 

Not Shiro. 

Which, logically, he could understand. Was grateful, even, to his partners quick thinking because Keith had taken initiative to resolve a problem that Shiro would have surely solved by ridding Lance of this earth completely. But the fact that Keith had had such an opportunity to explain himself, had been forgiven by Lance when he’d done so, carved out a space between them that Shiro would have to fight tooth and nail to cross. 

Keith would no doubt be written off as a savior come Lance’s recovery. 

Shiro on the other hand...

“Home.” 

Shiro looked at Keith, brow furrowed in question as the man crossed his arms and fixed a look towards the dash. 

“After this,” he continued, “We take him home. He can sleep it off in our bed.”

Shiro inhales.

 

* * * 

 

The space, to his surprise, is no bigger than a kindergarten classroom; it’s entirety separated by a thick set wall and two double doors to match. To his left, an illuminated panel ran flush with the length of the counter below and cast an offensive light on the layer of paperwork stuck to ancient coffee stains and sticky creamer. 

A parallel counter separated from its twin sat just below the viewing window, but differed in it’s scattered organization. A computer here, another there. Maybe a water bottle if they were brave enough to risk it around the equipment. And the barely there light of the glowing line of monitors offered just enough illumination for Shiro to catch the occasional glimpse of his pacing figure in the reflection. Back and forth, back and forth. 

Any longer and he’d walk a hole in the linoleum. 

It had been an incredibly stressful hour. Between Lance taking up a near constant dribbling and having to deal with Keith and his own emotional turmoil, Shiro was beginning to feel the impending effects of fatigue as the roiling anxiety made a home deep in his gut. 

He just needed some good news. 

Any news. 

 _Wait_ -

“It’s awful.”

Coran announced this grimly, shaking his head at the line of black and gray images that were absolutely meaningless to Shiro and sucking any trace of hope he had so carefully tended to.

Just hearing Coran relay the information had regret seeping into every nerve of his body. 

Having to hear Coran say it again makes the ground drop out from under him. 

“It’s awful,” he repeated, looking grief stricken and pale. “I am so sorry, my boy.” 

A thin exhale shuddered it’s way from Shiro’s deprived lungs and ultimately determined the outcome of his earlier debate. 

He would have to kill him. His employee; don’t panic. 

Sudden, yes, but with Lance’s condition no longer in question, Keith be damned, Shiro would not be kept from hunting the man down and showing him just how actions had consequences. Show him how much worse it would be now that he had to think and fantasize about it all. 

Because he wouldn’t be quick. Shiro would be ruthless, barbaric.

There were ways to keep people just on the brink of death, just on the edge of sanity, that Shiro would be able to enjoy it for _weeks_. Just as it should be when you broke something precious to him. 

Shiro fixed his gaze on the window in newfound determination and picked Lance out in the gently lit room humming it’s effort along his pliant body. 

He’d been dressed in nothing but a flimsy hospital gown and a pair of thick socks- courtesy of Shiro- that did absolutely nothing to stop the familiar chill that seemed forever layered on his skin. He shivered the entire time the nurse undressed him; slurred his complaints and cried when he was told it would only take a minute. 

He was just so painfully vulnerable like this, and yet, so unbelievably protected in Shiro’s own resolve to keep him safe. 

They would figure it out, just like Matt. Whatever it was, they wouldn’t leave him. 

“Is he-” Shiro swallowed. “Is he going to-” 

Coran watched him suck in a shaky breath and blinked. “Is he what?” He asked. “Going to be able to get it out?” Coran tutted down at his clipboard and furthered his woes with a disappointed, “Oh, my boy. Have you any idea how stains work? Blood and bile don’t just, _wash_ out of whites willy nilly. He’ll never be able to get it out.” 

 _Exhale_.

Shiro felt his knees quake with the force of Coran’s words as his body deemed itself physically strung out and gave up. He gasped, “Oh dear God,” and clung to the support of the lengthy desk as Coran plopped down in his respective seat and agreed wholeheartedly. 

“Yes, well,” he resumed. “I can only suggest you discard the wretched fabric before it starts to acquire an odor. The boy will surely thank you for it, believe me.” 

Coran continued about his mindless organization, seemingly oblivious to Shiro’s gape of raw bewilderment, as the man stroked his mustache, pinched his brows in thought, and brightened with surety. 

“The good news, however, is that your little civilian has been showing vast improvement since we started testing. Resilient creature, he is.” The man kicked out a leg and propelled himself backwards to hit flush with the back wall panel. “I myself,” he gestured, “Would have felt inclined to classify him in what we call the ‘severe’ category, what with him losing consciousness, but considering the magnitude of the offending blow, it’s not unlikely for its prevalence in the situation.”

Shiro nodded to show he was listening as he dedicated a few moments to swallowing his earlier panic with a grimace Coran matched with a sympathetic smile. 

“We had minimal swelling at the point of impact, here.” He made a circle. “But that’s usually the case with these things. The swelling has actually been gradually going down since we first began scanning him. Likely it won’t disappear completely, at least not for the next few hours, but I can confidently rule out any hemorrhaging or further complications in the foreseeable future.”

Coran clapped his hands to his lap with a small smile and summarized, “Mild concussion, if even that. Give it a day and he’ll be up and running, good as new.” 

Blood rushes to Shiro’s head and the righting of his equilibrium has his blood cells pumping oxygen as vigorously as ever to hastily rid the obnoxious dark spots peeking at the edges of his vision. His lungs fill and release, inhale, exhale, with gradual ease, and Coran is there with a grounding hand to his shoulder telling him to breathe. 

“Breathe, Takashi. You got it, my boy.” 

And he does. 

Inhale. 

Exhale.

“That’s it,” Coran encouraged. He’s patient enough to give Shiro another minute or so before he’s squeezing gently and attempting further conversation. “You’ve brought me a civilian,” he declared. 

And there’s a depth to his words that Shiro doesn’t dare miss. In them, the sole reason Coran even _considered_  further contact when prompted by their employee. 

Shiro swiped a hand down his face and leaned back heavily; mirrored Corans own recline and met his inquisitive look with apprehension. “He’s a reporter,” he started pointedly. “Supposedly doing an inside scoop on the life of a construction worker.” 

“Supposedly?” 

Shiro made a face. “It’s complicated.” 

Coran nodded at that, an understanding, “I see,” slipping out between the cup of his palm. “You seem fond of him,” he stated soon after, and Shiro sputtered his defense in heated color. 

“He’s a work relation,” Shiro pitched. But Corans bark of laughter tells him he’s not buying it and really, Shiro didn’t blame him. 

“Of course,” Coran agreed with a grin. “Though I doubt you’ve ever addressed Thace with terms of endearment when he came in with broken god knows what, now have you, _sweetheart?”_

Shiro burns. 

“I’ve known you a very long time, Takashi,” Coran drawled. “Or have you already forgotten?”

Bitterness floods Shiro’s mouth at the reminder. And he knows Coran doesn’t mean anything by it, that he’s being cordial, but he sobers in the feeling of melancholy and stares at his clasped hands in shame. 

How could he forget when the process had been so gradual? Like watching a family member get sicker and sicker until they were incapable of _being_. The only difference there’d been was the fact Shiro had the means to put an end to it. Had endured right alongside the man as the days drained, and bullied, and wrung him dry of anything he may have had left to give. 

Shiro would never forget the way Coran had come to him like he’d done. 

Worn.

Defeated. 

No amount of begging could’ve restored what the last boss had taken from his loyal friend. And the night Coran had approached him, feverish and beyond reason, begging Shiro to let him leave or to kill him where he stood, was the first and only night Shiro ever broke protocol. 

Coran ordered Shiro to cut all ties with him. Demanded they burn every trace of his affiliation within the group and to never contact him again. 

And in the end, that is exactly what Shiro did. 

He upheld his part of the promise; burned every piece of evidence he could get his hands on and resolved himself to four years of silence until the man became nothing but a distant memory. 

Keith filled his spot, gave him everything and more, and that was the end of it.

He would’ve never broken that promise had he not been forced to. Would show that by leaving here with Lance and never coming back.

“Oh my.” 

Shiro surfaced from his resolve to find the man in question looking rightfully befuddled, his attention clearly monopolized by something Shiro had not yet discovered. 

“Takashi,” Coran addressed with barely contained amusement. “Would you please remind Lance to keep still while the machine finishes scanning. His images are becoming rather blurry.” 

An idle nurse stood by smiling in exasperation as a familiar pair of feet wiggled through the opening of the M.R.I.

Was Lance...singing?

”He’s quite good,” the nurse complimented, and Shiro felt his lips quirk something deeply fond as he leaned into the small microphone

“Lance?” He called gently. 

Lance’s toes stopped wiggling and the distorted humming ran soft, then softer, until it silenced completely.

“Lance,” he called again. “Sweetheart, I need you to sit still for me, okay? Just for a bit longer and then you can move and sing all you want.” 

Shiro thinks he’s being reasonable, but something about the request makes Lance look severely put out. He tried to crane his neck, grunted with the effort, and flopped back with a disheartened huff before closing his eyes in defeat. “Kashi?” He called carefully.

Shiro hummed, “Hi, Kitten,” and waited patiently to hear Lance’s bashful giggle.

The machine starts back up again and something about the readings satisfy Coran’s earlier concern enough to conclude the test without further interruption.

Call it a miracle, blame it on luck, he didn’t care.

All Shiro is aware of is the comforting weight that is Lance being helped up and out of the intimidating machine and coaxed into his waiting arms when nothing out of the ordinary makes itself known.

Shiro is free to take Lance home, to a different home, anywhere he wants, to ride out the worst of his concussion with Shiro at his side. Keith included, of course.

 _Of course_.

“How was that, Lance?” Coran chirped. “Not too bad, yes?”

Lance‘s face scrunched something sour, and he’s incredibly determined when he tells Coran, “No,” with unparalleled concentration.

It makes Shiro laugh and he shakes Lance from the force of it as the man blinked up at him with a blank smile and began laughing himself; clearly pleased with Shiro’s own amusement.

Coran rolled his eyes and beckoned them out of the radiology room.

“With that energy, he’ll be fine come morning.” Coran reassured once more. “I’ll have his prescription sent out to your pharmacy for pick-up before you leave. When you take him home, be careful of his stitches. He probably feels a slight pulling and will want to fuss over them when you’re not looking. Keep an eye out, make sure he gets some rest, and if at any point, you feel something is off,” Coran grabbed Shiro's shoulder then; softened the instruction of his words with blue eyes integrating every bit of warmth and friendship he can nurse before telling Shiro, “ _Call_.” 

Lance mimics a soft ringing sound under his breath and stops only when Shiro hushes him.

The offer is more than he could think to ask for and he’s genuine in the nod of respect he gives Coran before the sound of frantic footsteps signaled the arrival of one disheveled Keith Kogane.

He comes to a grinding halt; a thin sheen of sweat layering his usually pale complexion and highlighting the flushed pink kissing high at his collarbone. 

Shiro suddenly remembered where it was he had sent the man and whispered, “Parking,” to Coran who nodded in understanding and gave Keith a patient look.

Keith, who shifted from foot to foot and eyed the length of the hall before his pupils visibly dilated at the sight of the occupant in Shiro's arms.

He heaves a breath, “Is he,” and has to cough when it comes out scratchy and raw. “I-Is it-“

“Bad?” Coran interjects.

Shiro looked to the man and caught his eye with a forced sort of resignation.

He had broken a promise. The least Shiro can do is let Coran have his fun.

“It’s awful, Keith.” The ginger deadpanned. “We tried everything my best men could think of and it still wasn’t enough. I’m sorry, my boy, but there was nothing more we could’ve done to salvage it.” 

Shiro has to step in when Keith starts crying.

 

* * *

 

“Watch it.”

“I _am_ watching it. He’s the one moving.”

“That’s because you’re pulling too hard.”

“I’m not pulling at all!”

“Quiet! His head hurts, Keith.”

“Oh really? Is it because of those obvious stitches in his head? I never would’ve guessed, Shiro.”

“I said, _watch it_.”

. . . 

. . .

“He’s leaning.”

“What?”

“Leaning. Keith, for the love of- _grab him_!”

“Alright! You just said not to fucking yell and now you’re- _ah_ , shit.”

“Dammit, Keith.”

“What did I do?”

“Just shut up and get me a towel, okay? He’s freezing. Lance? Baby, it’s okay, don’t cry. Is it your head?”

“Of course it’s his head. What the fuck else would it be?”

“Keith, I am _this_ close-“

 . . .

“Careful.”

“Don’t micromanage me, Shiro.”

“You’re moving him too much.”

“He’s not going to fall apart. I can move him.”

“But he looks like he’s in pain when you do that.”

“ _Jesus fucking_ \- you know what? _You_ do it. _I’ll_ go get his goddamn pills and you can do this any way your obsessive tendencies want. Happy?”

“Drive safe.”

“Fuck off, Shiro.” 

The door clicked shut shortly after that, though Shiro is positive it takes every bit of restraint for Keith to do so without snapping a hinge. And as much as Shiro would’ve loved to have Keith’s help, he’s sure he can get stuff done more efficiently by his lonesome.

Well, lonesome with Lance. 

Shiro pressed out a calming sigh and caught Lances stare with a cringe. His baby blues were still brimmed with tears but the uncomfortable wince had eased itself from the scrunch of his face and smoothed into something content.

“Alright,” Shiro announced quietly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” 

Lance hummed his agreement? Disagreement? Shiro hates that he can’t be sure as he eased the last of Lances clothes from his relenting body and hurried to wrap him up. 

He’s still as incredibly soft as Shiro remembered. And the shameful recollection has his neck heating as he adjusted the hold of his flesh hand and pulled the man up into his arms to carry him from bed to bathroom in quick succession.

Shiro was a man of moral. He would never take advantage of Lance in the condition he was in right now, though he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it.

To see if Lance had been honest with them like he’d said he was being. 

It’d be wrong, but it would also be incredibly smart.

“S’this.” Lance leaned heavily against Shiro as he placed him up onto the countertop and coaxed him upright. His fingers tightened at the edge of the towel but otherwise stayed put, even when he began tilting dangerously to his front and was in need of a supportive hand courtesy of Shiro's own.

“What was that?” 

Lance blinked, pressed his head to the wall, and looked at Shiro with a knowing smile that had him at a true loss.

“Me,” Lance articulated slowly. He grins and eyes Shiro with a dragging glance down at himself before telling him, “Din’er firs’, ‘Kashi,” and winking.

The execution is mediocre, probably a long shot from Lance’s more conscious phrases, and yet Shiro feels his cheeks flare in embarrassment as the man snickered his victory and lost his balance.

“Good one,” Shiro said dryly, catching him with ease.

Lance hummed again, eyes rolling back before blinking open and finding Shiro's jawline. “I know,” he boasts.

Ten minutes later and it’s silent save for the rhythmic swoosh of Shiro swirling his hand-his real one-through the water; trying to recall a time when he took a bath that _wasn’t_ borderline boiling. 

Keith always waited for billows of steam before considering such a luxury, so it quickly became a guessing game of just how hot he should make it before it became horribly lethal.

“How’s this?” Shiro worried.

Lance’s foot goes easily enough, no voice of complaint so far, but he’s blindsided by the sudden sag of the mans weight as it sent him lurching forward and scrambling to catch their momentum lest he fall in and topple Lance in the process.

“Easy,” he growls. 

Lance just grunts his objection and squirms, effectively slipping lower until he’s chest deep in the water and purring his content.

“Alright,” Shiro relented. “Okay. We’re doing things, aren’t we? Is it too hot?”

Lance tilted his head back with another hum that did nothing the quell the tightening of anxiety in Shiro’s chest. 

He didn’t want to mess this up.

Not when he finally had a chance. Keith leaving gave him the head start he needed to get things cleared between him and Lance. Because he never had the time to talk to him, to reassure the man of what Keith had had to say in his place.

If Shiro could just, care for him, show him his genuine concern through all of this. 

Maybe he could-

“No.”

Lance tilted his head and Shiro blinked.

“No? Lance, what’s ‘no’? Does this hurt?”

Lance frowned. “Hurt?”

And Shiro nodded, “Yeah, sweetheart,” as he grabbed the shower-head to rinse the conditioner from his hair. “What’s ‘no’,” he repeated. “Does your head hurt?”

It’s a stupid thing to ask. Shiro can even hear Keith’s sneer as the obvious answer, “Yeah,” slipped from Lance’s lips and tailed into a soft sound when Shiro pulled away completely.

He would stop then. He worried about aggravating the stitches at Lances temple and if he said it hurt, then Shiro wouldn’t push it. 

“Why?” Lance asked.

Shiro brushed the overlay of curls from Lance’s gaze to give him a patient smile. “Because you said it hurt.”

And Lance nodded slowly. “My head hurts.”

Shiro said nothing as he finished washing the last of the suds from Lance’s wispy curls and took care to shield his eyes as he ran close to his forehead. “I know it hurts, Lance,” he murmured. ”Let’s get you out, okay?”

The water had cooled enough for Lance’s arms to break out into goosebumps. If he stayed like this any longer, Shiro was sure to struggle in getting him warmed up again, so he quickly turned to grab the discarded towel he’d left on the counter.

It’s a minute objective, something that could easily be done in less than a second.

Which is apparently all Lance needs to slip beneath the surface.

Shiro yelps, “Fuck!” and lunges elbow deep to drag the sinking man up for air. “Lance,” he panics, and Lance had the audacity to just, blink awake, genuinely confused as Shiro gasped, “God,” and sagged against the edge of the tub. “I don’t think I can take much more of this. You scared me.”

Lance narrowed his eyes. “Boo?”

And Shiro nodded in defeat. “Yeah, Lance. Boo.”

There’s no point trying to keep dry now that he’s not, so he hooked his arms up beneath Lances own and heaved him up and against his chest; uncaring that his shirt was downright soaked at this point. He had bigger things to worry about.

Like Lance nearly dying. 

_Like Lance naked against him._

“S’it, Hallow’n?” He slurred.

Shiro turned as the door clicked shut.

”Jesus Christ, he’s gotten worse.”

Keith sounded exasperated as he kicked his shoes off somewhere in the corner; a small white pharmacy bag crinkled in his grasp. He leaned down to fight his socks off and then attacked where the choke of his tie had become overbearing.

“How is he?” He asked.

Shiro motioned, _up, up_ , to encourage Lance to raise his arms, and Keith, of course, takes that exact moment to step close and watch the towel pool in the mans lap before Shiro has the time to preserve his modesty. 

“He’s fine,” Shiro grit. 

Keith snorted and pushed the bag into Shiro's chest. “Well this shit is about to make him better. One dose for the headache, another for the stitches.”

“He can sleep?” 

Keith stopped, his pants caught about his thighs before shaking his head and kicking them the rest of the way off. “He’s supposed to, Shiro. It’s a head injury.”

Which Shiro knew, _duh_. Lance was right there in front of him. But that's what made it all the more terrifying. 

“He’s not going to die on us,” Keith chided, already donning a pair of sweats and timbering down onto his side of the mattress. “And he definitely doesn’t need you harassing him all night. You need to let him sleep.” 

 

* * *

 

Shiro wakes Lance up. 

Seven times actually. 

The first time is purely premature. He hadn’t meant to panic, but Lance had fallen asleep not three minutes after laying down and Shiro immediately began tracking the steady rise and fall of his chest. Nine seconds in, eight seconds out. Just like that for the entire thirty minutes Shiro lay there staring.

And he probably makes it forty, forty-five minutes before his eyes go screwy in the dark and cause him to lose track of each of Lance’s respiratory cycles. Was it nine seconds out? Ten seconds in? God, had he been listening to _Keith_ this entire time? 

No.

To all of those actually.

Shiro is just paranoid.

And Lance is still completely out of it forty minutes after putting him down. He barely clings to consciousness as it is, and he doesn’t have the strength to engage Shiro the way that Shiro wants him to.

It’s awful, he knows, but he just needs the peace of mind, the reassurance that the man hadn’t gone and died a foot from him.

So it’s nine seconds in, eight seconds out. 

Same as always for the duration of Shiro's seven hours.

The silver lining is that the next six times are easier; gradual in their excitement and getting better as they go. He watches Lance become increasingly more aware of his surroundings, even going as far as to grunt his disappointment when he got an eyeful of Keiths hair. 

“Gross,” he’d muttered, rolling over and squinting against the lightening dark of the room. He let out a tired huff, nuzzled his face into the corner of the pillow, and, as if he felt Shiro staring, cracked an eye open to confirm, yep. Shiro was, in fact, staring.

“Stahp,” Lance mumbled.

Shiro stuttered his apology and sidled up against Lance with his lower lip caught between his teeth. He hopes Lance will talk to him longer, that he’ll have more time, but he only gets about five minutes of conversation before the man can’t keep his eyes open and he has to submit.

Shiro adores him for trying, though.

And it’s in between the cycles of silence that he spends time thinking about Lance’s affinity for the beach and his endless line of siblings that were annoyed by his antics, but cherished him nonetheless. About his love for writing and space, something Shiro eagerly agreed with, and his desires to go home to Cuba. 

And Shiro asks him, probably around the fifth time, “Why don’t you?” but Lance just snorted, disbelieving, and started snoring into the safety of his arm.

Shiro doesn’t get an answer the seventh time, but he does get progress.

Lance hummed into awareness and met Shiro's insistent stare with a look clearer than Shiro had seen in hours. And he shifts, squirming until he’s flush with Shiro's chest before mumbling a quiet, “Mornin’,” that has Shiro’s heart fighting against his rib cage.

“Time is it?” 

Shiro peered over the lump that was Keith's head and settled back to look at Lance. “4 a.m,” he admitted sheepishly. “How are you feeling?” 

Lance licked his lips and shifted, as if to test the feel of his own body before leaning deeper into Shiro and making a noncommittal noise.

“Tired,” he said. “Sluggish.” 

Two things that were better than dribbling and slurring.

“I dribbled?” Lance squeaked softly.

Shiro let out a careful laugh and reached a hand up to card his fingers through the mans tousled hair. “If it helps, you were very manageable.”

And so utterly precious it hurt.

“Well,” Lance’s legs bump against his. “I try.” His eyes flutter soon after, making Shiro’s heart sink just a little as he nuzzled further into his chest with a sigh. “You should get some sleep, Takashi,” he whispered.

Shiro hummed in response and planted a hesitant kiss to the man's forehead before counting down in his head. 

Then it’s back to, nine seconds in, eight seconds out. 

Nine seconds in, eight seconds out.

. . .

Nine seconds in, eight seconds out.

Nine seconds in, eight seconds out.

Seven seconds in, six seconds out.

Five seconds in, four seconds out. 

He jolts. 

Hard enough that the headboard rocks along with Lance who already has a hand out and pressed against the line of Shiro's jaw, his thumb soothing at his cheek and blue eyes alert.

He hushes Shiro. Settles him down and back against the pillows with his brows pinched in concern.

“You’re awake,” Shiro says dumbly.

Lance reached his hand up and smoothed the disarray of Shiro's hair back and out of his eyes; a gesture so intimate that Shiro feels his cheeks warm. 

“You’ve _been_ awake,” Lance accused quietly. “How long, Shiro?”

Shiro glanced at the clock, just barely 6 a.m, and looked back at Lance’s disapproving frown with his lips parted in search of an excuse.

He tries, “You’re supposed to wake a concussed person every-“ but Lance just gives him a gentle shake of his head and combs his finger through the white streak again.

Shiro sinks into the shiver.

“Go to sleep, Takashi,” Lance instructs. “If anyone is at risk of dying now, it’s you.”

“Lance-“

“ _Sleep,”_ comes the hissed reply, and with it, two hands that force his head down against the narrow plane of Lance’s chest and hold there. Right by his heart. 

His fingers return; play at Shiro’s nape and scratch behind his ear, card up and down in ways that have him rumbling his approval when he can’t find the words to express it. 

“Go to sleep, Takashi,” Lance tells him again.

So he does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was one of the longest ones so far and I don’t want to overwhelm you even more so I’ll be quick, hehe. I apologize for the long wait and for such an anticipated update as well. Does the spoiler for an entire chapter of smut help? If not, feel free to clap back and set me straight. Also, don’t mind me. Just fucking around with some titles.  
> And I wanted to end with this.  
> Coran.  
> Precious Lance.  
> Crying Keith.  
> And Shiro. Just. Shiro.  
> That is all and thank you for your time.


	15. Inhale (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “nO mOnTH LonG WaIt i SWeaR”  
> Soooo here's some math before you start. Keith won the vote by five, there are about four thousand plus words of actual dialogue and progression, and five thousand plus words of dicks and ass.  
> Take it.

Domesticity; the quality or state of being domestic, domesticated, or considered ones home and family life. In other words, marriage without commitment. A label to settle the minds of uncertain men and anxious women living in an age where divorce had become today’s best option and tomorrow’s biggest regret.

And, okay. We’re starting off darker than we’ve done before but there was a point.

Lance always had a point.

And he would make it by starting right where he left off and explaining how he spent the better part of his October working three nights of overtime and cringing under the moist heat of his boss breathing down his neck.

Business as usual.

Only this time, his team had managed to lose their leading article sometime between Iverson’s afternoon piss break and their routinely call for lunch. Idris, the one working on the piece, had scrapped it with a violent shake of his head, told them it was a false lead, and that they were lucky enough to catch it before they ended up like the poor suckers down in Oregon.

“They’ve spent all morning dishing out corrections,” he said. “New York too.”

Which had Lance swivelling in his chair because _New York? Really?_

It was the infamous domino effect of destruction that every reporter feared. A trigger finger reaction to gossip on the hotline that neglected traceable sources and dove headfirst into nothing but a journalism _dream_.

It happened to the best of them.

The _New York_ best of them.

The article had been some thousand word rarity that ate up the bulk of their home page and kept their editorial team locked up for _days_. Liz had slapped on a still shot of camera footage that had been circulating grainy and frustrating for the past eight hours and called it with a triumphant bob of her red curls. 

It was strong. Nothing compared to what New York had dished out, but strong nonetheless.

Which was exactly why Iverson had popped a blood vessel the second he realized they couldn’t use it.

“Run it anyway,” he’d growled.

Idris shredded the draft. “Run it and we burn,” he countered. "The photo is crap, Iverson. The story is crap _because_ of the photo. Oregon got it wrong last night. The guy in the picture wasn’t even the suspect.”

“So fix it. Ditch the photo, edit the story, I don’t give a flying fuck,” Iverson spat. “You led this week. Which means if I’m sending my front page out with jack shit, you’ll be getting _paid_ jack shit. Got it?”

"Loud and clear, sir." The correct response to anything and everything Iverson related.

Lance had still been a newbie then. The only experience he’d gotten out in the field was knocking door to door in search of sponsors and shadowing Allura on easy days. His work was shoddy, shitty at best, and he was in desperate need of the miracle named Hunk to help him clean up the edges.

Not that it ever stopped him from asking for the front page.

Hadn’t stopped him, even to this day.

Which led us to the random educational excerpt above that was sort of out of place, but important for the build up. He had a point, remember?

One of them being the fact that Iverson had _looked_ at him that day. Did what Lance had been begging him to do for what seemed like years now and met him in the middle by threatening him within an inch of his job, within an inch of his _life_ , and telling Lance to have a copy of his work on his desk by _yesterday_. Spent the rest of that memorable weekend invading his personal space and leaving greasy thumbprints all over his desktop anytime he so much as made a typing error.

It was the first article he’d ever gotten through the drafting stages.

An article done on the domestic life of some past mayor whose name he’d forgotten but story he remembered.

Voted out after some impromptu threesome that left his wife heartbroken and teenage son indifferent.

Lance hadn’t thought much about the story after it’s publication. He was just happy to see his name at the corner of _something_ in that twelve point font English teachers raved about. He had sent his Mama a picture, saved it on his phone, and brushed the memory into his dust file of success in search of another.

Moving on.

Only, he wasn’t.

Lance didn’t care about domesticity then, let alone know the definition. He cared about the drama, the fact that another man in politics had been outed for having an affair with not one, but _two_ different women while living the so-called ‘American Dream’. That was the kind of thing the public ate up.

But he had asked, partly because he was curious and partly because he needed to conclude the interview if what he had done was worth the fallout.

Was quickly hit with a frantic, “No,” that Lance vividly remembered because spit had caught the corner of his recorder and he tried not to wince in disgust as the man whose name he couldn’t recall hit him with a look of longing. “I miss it,” he insisted. “The _domestication_. Having a family to come home to; a wife. I miss my wife. Nothing really feels the same when they’re gone. It’s like the warmth goes with them.”

And Lance had nodded politely because the books told him to and said, “I understand,” even though he didn’t.

Not when he had no one to come home to. Not when he hadn’t seen his family in well over two years. Not when, no matter how hard he tried, the act of waking up beside someone became more of a fight and less of a given with each and every one of them.

Lance didn’t _get_ domesticity.

But if he did, he was sure it would look and feel something like this.

The wind shuddered South shortly after Takashi went slack in his arms and gentle sheets of rain had begun blanketing the surrounding windows in a pattering wash of noise. Teasing rays of sunlight had yet to breach the dreary overhang of strolling clouds, but none of it could detract from the warmth their pliant bodies had orchestrated while underneath the sheets.

 _Bodies_ , Lance thinks.

As in multiple.

Lance felt a sort of giddiness bloom in his chest as he glanced down at where Takashi was spread out on his front; two thick arms crammed deep under the line of Lance’s back and holding where the jut of his shoulder blades offered purchase. The man's face had tilted upwards as if he had naturally sought Lance out while asleep, and the usual streak of slicked back white was an endearing mess of wild tufts that jittered anytime Lance let out a soft exhale.

He sleeps deep. With purpose.

Scrapes the lower caverns of his lungs until Lance feels their rib cages greet, retreat, and ready their pleasantries once more.

And, for the record, because he knows you shits keep track, Lance _tries_ to convince himself to go back to sleep. Really, he could use it. But he can't imagine another scenario like this where he would have the opportunity to stare and observe.

Takashi was two-hundred-plus pounds of corded muscle, that we established. But did you know there were soft pockets of flesh where belly met hip? Or that his sides were surprisingly susceptible to jumping with sensitivity should they get grazed just right? They're mundane quirks that make Lance smile in surprise because how was he to ever know these things if he didn't take advantage of the offered chance?

_Yeah._

Curiosity is no stranger to Lance and it doesn't take long before he's mapping the safest route for his fingers to explore and taking a quiet moment to settle the tousle of Takashi’s hair. He fussed over the wispy length, eased down the buzzed gray, and hesitated in his caress when Shiro let out a throaty purr. The vibrations encourage him to linger for Takashi’s unconscious pleasure, but temptation has him patting his apology into the divot of space between his tense shoulders and eagerly moving on to the shelter of his shirt.

Which doesn't put up much of a fight, by the way. Lance's exploring fingertips expose the hidden skin beneath and find it pleasantly warm without so much as breaking a sweat, ha. And he hadn't ever seen Shiro shirtless before, now that he thought about it. But once he feels at the starbursts of flesh cutting lines of violent history, he quickly realizes why.

Scars, he thinks.

Thirteen in all.

And it is in no way Lance's place to intrude like this, to seek out vulnerability, but he can't help the nagging desire to study the details of their existence. To map their presence in his mind and wonder what Takashi would say if he ever worked up the courage to ask about them. 

Before, Lance would've laughed. Would've brought tears to his eyes thinking such an idiotic thing because he was nowhere near the point of trust with them. But now. Now was completely different because Lance remembered. 

He remembered everything.

The hospital with its white walls and pungent aroma of antiseptic. The way he had been swarmed and stripped and dressed in something far too flimsy to be legal. A medical gown that clearly did not flatter his skin tone in the least, good, _G_ _od_.

And he remembered Takashi, vividly, as he picked him up and down, up and down; carried him as though he were fragile and something entirely priceless while his hands refused to still.

Takashi burning the entire time he dressed him. Takashi burning the entire time he _undressed_ him.

The bath.

The bed.

 _Now_.

It shouldn't be ignored that they had every resource to drop Lance off at the hospital and wipe their hands of him, easy and done. They’d send him an invoice of their deepest apologies and let him down as gently as the could manage before ‘anyone else got hurt’ or some bullshit excuse like that. Lance would receive a notice from their lawyers asking him to keep hush-hush in return for compensation, and Lance would need it desperately because Iverson wouldn’t hesitate to fire his ass the second he came in reeking of failure.

But they had brought him here. To their _home_.

Meaningless from a distance, yes, but up close, Lance had successfully skipped at least three weeks of rigorous work trying to insert himself as a beacon of trust. This was an act of protectiveness that overlapped every slip up he’d made until this point.

Lance would say he was a genius for getting knocked in the head by one of their employees, but the truth was it was a horrible accident that could’ve honestly gotten him killed. Killed, but at least ten steps ahead of the game because they _trusted_ him again.

It was finally his move and Lance would make damn sure it was worth the trouble. 

At least until Shiro grunted. Lance quickly felt a crack in his bravado when the man slurred something unintelligible, scrunched his nose, and promptly released him in favour of shoving his face into the relenting pillow to their right.

Which wasn't—That wasn't, 

 _Fair_ , dammit.

Lance groaned, silently berating himself for such a weakness, and could already feel his resolve crumbling through his trapped fingers. So he wrestled the rest of his arm out from where it had gotten squished under Takashi’s stupidly broad chest and pouted the entire roll away from the man. 

Though technically, Lance wasn’t on the clock with this abrupt leave of absence, and _t_ _echnically_ , his evil schemes could wait until tomorrow, it still put a sour taste in his mouth knowing he had yet to withstand the power of Shiro’s charm.

Well, that and Keith’s monstrosity of a haircut.

Lance felt his frown deepen into a scowl.

The dark length was a shocking contrast against the beddings stark white and if not for the colour clash and trespassing limbs, Lance was sure to have missed the man completely.

His porcelain skin blended seamlessly against the sheets, pale on pale on pale, and it didn’t help that he had his head burrowed beneath not one, not two, but _three_ different pillows.

Could he even breathe like that?

Come to think of it, could _either_ of them breathe like this?

Lance lifted up onto an elbow, determined to find out, and immediately froze at the bout of vertigo urging him to wait until the room stayed still and the subtle throb at his temple died down. So he listens, eyes fluttering to counteract the dizzy, and takes his time when peeling back the sheets, layer by layer, to unveil the pale expanse of Keith’s naked back.

Like an artist would a work of art.

And Keith, truly, is a work of art.

A spattering of beauty marks decorated faint and brilliant along the exaggerated dip in the man’s spine and he catches a glimpse of freckles. They're few and hard to detect, running light against the breadth of his shoulders and disappearing into the curve before they could make too much of a statement to prying eyes, but they're there.

Constellations that pique Lance’s interest and have him reaching out in awe because they are so different than Shiro’s own craters and it's only fair he capture them too.

Then the clouds break and sunlight pours in with a tamed harshness that allows Lance the ability to watch what little shadows there were swirl along Keith’s naked skin; bathing him in a glow that made every cut, every edge of the man go incredibly soft.

Sleep makes them look human for once.

At ease.

It’s the kind of image that threatens Lance’s composure and possesses the ability to skew all of his intentions towards this assignment. An image of _domestication_ that is far more dangerous than Lance could’ve ever bargained for.

Consider this lesson learned.

Lance sank a canine into the pillow of his lower lip and shoved an elbow up under his side to sit himself upright. The room trembled at the edges of his peripheral, blurring in and out of focus before his eyes found balance and gave him permission to move further.

And by move, he meant leave.

Dip. 

Skedaddle. 

Do what Takashi and Keith had done and disappear without another word. Just so he could spare himself the humiliation of having to pack his things and be led from the premises come time for them to wake up.

But Keith, of course it’s Keith, hikes a knee in search of varied comfort and the powerful shift of muscle is enough to draw Lance’s hesitant gaze and have him dumbstruck in seconds. The urge to document the detail is overwhelming and Lance barely has time to think this so before he was memorizing the subtle planes of muscle with unwavering concentration. 

It's all for the sake of his story, he thinks. Swears that staring at the soft impressions of the two dimples sitting right above the curve of Keith’s ass is essential for public interest and even goes as far as to ogle the low rise of the man’s night sweats because now that he thought about it, Iverson was always telling them to bring the imagery into their work.

And who was he to go against his bosses word?

Lance risked a quick look at the teasing v-line that was teetering on the edge of scandalous and flushed. He had come face to face with said v-line in a much more rated R setting once before and was quick to look away lest he burn himself useless and tread onto off-limits territory.

Something else, Lance. Focus on something else.  

Like Keith's hair.

That was safe.

Ignore the teasing dimples, skip over the taunting flex of flesh, sort of linger along Keith’s shoulders, and finally, _finally,_ fix your eyes on the only safe haven.

It’s a painful task, but if Lance were to continue wasting time just for the hell of it, then he would sure as hell do it like the professional he was.

Because Lance was a professional.

A professional that glared at the dated mess of hair and found it in himself to wind his fingers through the rebelling strands, much like he’d done with Shiro.

And if he were being honest, because y'know, Lance _loved_ honesty, he wouldn't hesitate to admit he hated the stupid thing. The utter lack of maintenance that went into growing such a style was appalling, and the choice to just, ignore its presence was all one needed to know in order to see what Keith’s intentions in life were.

Sure, the man had a way of pulling it off. And yeah, Lance enjoyed the way it offered him a grip when the man was lined flush against his-

Lance froze.

Shiro muttered something about grapes.

And resolve insinuated itself deep into his thoughts and told him, yep. Definitely, time to go.

This was dangerous. Way too dangerous, and the longer he stayed, the worse off he would be come afternoon. He’d write a note, send a text. Shoot off a dry e-mail lying about some emergency that would give him enough time to take a shower and mentally reorganize after everything that had happened.

Because his time with Takashi was in desperate need of analysis and if Lance didn’t get his hands on a notepad and pen soon he was sure to forget. Not to mention he hadn’t even had the chance to call Hunk or Pidge, hell even Allura would be wondering what had happened to him. Plus, he was incredibly sure he had managed an interview back before he got downed by a chunk of metal and it’s right about now that he starts wondering where exactly did he leave his pho-

A hand shackles his wrist and with it, a stern, “Don’t,” that's rough with sleep and final.  

Lance thinks he should startle, any other time he would, but the only thing his lagging mind can think to muster is a surprised flinch and a quick glance downwards where Keith was suddenly scowling at him in a fresh-from-sleep daze.

The man shakes his wrist. “Don’t stop,” he repeated, and the explanation is just vague enough in his words that Lance can only stare on confusion until the man was tightening his looped fingers and directing his open palm back into the forest of tousled tresses awkwardly. “Feels fuckin’ amazing,” Keith grunted.

Lance blinked; his brain mulling over the words for one, two, three minutes before his fingers twitched and lazily dragged along Keith's scalp cautiously. The movement is methodical and adept. Expert after spending endless summer nights crammed beneath his siblings with one or both hands occupied in their comfort.

Keith is no exception either as Lance watched the give in his shoulders, the way he sank deeper into the mattress, and arched his back for one satisfying pop that had Lance stilling momentarily and tangling his fingers for something to do.

Ends up catching Keith's stare in between.

“How’s your head?” 

Lance paused at the question and flashed Keith a quiet look of surprise. Not because he hadn't expected it he just...hadn't...expected it.

“F-Fine,” he eventually managed, wincing when his voice grated with disuse. He attempted a quick cough and tried to ignore the way Keith studied him patiently by staring at his fingers. “It’s fine,” he said again.

Keith gave him a look. "Don't lie, Lance. You got rocked pretty hard back there.”

Which, _duh_ , Lance knew. He didn’t end up with a gaping wound in his head for nothing. But he flushes anyway and mutters, “I’m not lying,” while trying his best to act as focused as he can when he was just toying with the man's hair.

They sit like that, quiet except for Shiro’s occasional snore, and Keith doesn’t say anything else until he does.

“No ringing?” He asks suddenly.

Lance produced a look of faux annoyance and shook his head. “No ringing.”

“You feel nauseous?” Keith continued.

And Lance, unable to help himself, diluted a smirk and said, “Well, ever since you forced me to touch your mullet,” and stops only because Keith's expression soured. 

He curled his lips mockingly and _tsked_ at the way Lance let out a soft snort; fingers pulling at a strand in warning.

“No, Keith,” Lance sobered. “I’m not dizzy.” Keith's eyes followed the short retreat of his hand with a rueful look and Lance tried to think nothing of it as he mentally readied himself for departure. “Now, if you’re done harassing me, I would really like to get up so I can-”

“You can’t leave,” Keith interrupted. He shoved up on his forearms and Lance would have instinctively moved away had his eyes not tracked the powerful shift beneath the man’s flesh.

Damn him.

But then Keith is there, eyes bewildered; slightly condescending. And Lance levels the man with his own look of bewilderment and slips in a glint of challenge after being told _no_. By Keith no less.

“I can’t leave,” Lance repeated slowly. Because he did just get knocked the hell out by a support beam. Maybe he was starting to hear things. 

But Keith killed his chalking up with a quick nod and had begun to look increasingly frustrated with Lance’s own growing confusion. So he shakes his head again as if to say, _I'm being serious, dumbass,_ and Lance immediately narrowed his eyes.

“Okay.” Okay. He got what Keith was saying, yes, but it wasn’t like he was going to listen. “I’m going to leave, though,” He spelt out carefully.

And Keith said, "No," dragging the word just as Lance had done and added, “You’re not. Lay down. We’ll drive you home tonight.”

“Tonight!” Lance shrieked. “Yeah, no can do, Mullet. Thanks for everything, really. And be sure to tell Takashi the same once he wakes up because you are out of your damn mind if you think--Just tell me where my pants are. I can call an Uber or get Hunk to swing--are you even listening?”

Keith stopped tugging at the sheets and looked up at Lance. “Yes?” He winced.

Lance felt his temple throb. 

Thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes and Keith was already aggravating the impending headache at the left of his skull. Nevermind being led off the premises by the scruff of his shirt, Lance would gladly take his things and leave if it meant distancing himself from the world's biggest annoyance who, by the way, was currently making himself comfortable despite Lance’s refusal to do the same.

His silence had Keith looking up, expression surprisingly patient, and he waited a moment before patting his palm against the empty spot beside him and staring at Lance like he was some sort of dog.

Fuck that.

Lance turned on a knee with both palms flat against the sea of sheets and took a crawling position. He ignored Keith’s surprised prompt to return, waded his way to the edge of the bed, and went in search of salvation. He’d call Takashi tomorrow and thank him properly. Keith, on the other hand, could kiss his-

Ass. Keith grabs his ass.

Well, he doesn’t necessarily grab it, but he comes close. And his arms are incredibly forceful when they wind tightly around his waist, throw off his balance, and send Lance’s world smearing into a horrid blur of speckled white.

He lands flat against Keith’s chest; bounces off the forgiving surface, and promptly settled along the line of his shoulder with a startled intake of air and Keith plastered to his back.

“Stay,” the man ordered.

Lance grit his teeth and wriggled against the oppressive weight of a hooked arm. Then he pushed against the flip of his stomach as the room tilted sideways and refused it’s spiraling until he settled down and took a breather.

“You know you’re painfully energetic for someone who just suffered the worst of a concussion.”

Damn right he was.

“You’re actually supposed to sleep more,” Keith continued, seemingly unaware or choosing to ignore the weak struggle Lance was putting up to break free of his pale prison. “You’re only going to wear yourself out, Lance.”

Lance didn’t care. There was no way in hell he was staying another minute and getting distracted from the important task at hand. He needed to get home. Needed to get his phone, call Hunk, and check on Pidge before he began taking stock of his material.

Keith just needed...to let...go!

Lance squirmed, tested the hold of Keith’s arms, and was discouraged when the barrier remained impenetrable and served only to _encourage_ Keith who nudged a knee between his own two and locked him flat on his side. 

The big spoon of death.

“I hate you,” Lance swore.

Regretted it only when Keith laughed, engraving the vibrations deep into the curve of his spine and warming the words at the bottom of his neck. “That’s sweet,” he teased. “And by all means, hate me in your dreams too. Now it's time to go to sleep.”

“I’m not a child, Keith.”

_But you sure act like one._

Lance frowned at the suggestive silence and could feel the shit eating grin on Keith’s face.

“Shut up,” he spit.

Keith laughed again. “I didn’t say anything,” he pitched defensively, but Lance was already pouting towards Shiro’s uninterested back.

He _could_ reach out and nudge the man awake if he wanted. Beg Takashi to save him from the asshole glued to his back. But Lance remembered it hadn’t been that long since he got the man to lay down and it wouldn’t be fair to harass him when he was so obviously bone tired.

Tired enough to stay unconscious despite their antics.

Lance could handle this on his own. All he had to do was wait Keith out, right? Pretty soon he’d fall asleep, his strength would falter, and Lance would be able to sneak out from under his constricting arms and leave like he should’ve done in the first place.

God, if he had only left in the first place.

“Plotting isn’t sleeping,” Keith tutted against his ear suddenly and the words caught the shell and caused a shiver to zip up his spine and tear him from his thoughts as his brain flagged at the nearness of it all. At the nearness of _Keith_.

Lance forgets leaving and he suddenly starts focusing on why he was still there to begin with.

For one, his right leg was caught, weighed down by Keith’s offending own, and the flat of his belly was warmed by the intrusive heat of Keith’s arms flush against his naked skin. Like this, Lance could feel every line of Keith’s pysique as the man shifted; moving until his hips were fitted perfectly against the curve of his ass and inched closer until his chest was aligned with the 's' of his back.

Spooning was domestic.

 _Ah, shit_.

Lance ducked his head for protective cover and quickly worked to lessen the threat of Keith’s mouth. He wouldn't last long like this. He needed an escape plan.

“I-I’m not tired,” he stuttered weakly. “And _this_ isn’t fair, Keith. ‘Lemme go.”

“Can’t.”

“Can too,” Lance complained. He was complaining now. 

And Keith just shook his head before pressing an amused smile somewhere near Lance's shoulder. Of course the asshole thought this was funny. Why wouldn't he?

“I’m actually under strict orders to keep you in bed until further notice. So we either sleep or we-”

“Strict orders from who?”

Lance craned his head back to meet Keith’s gaze head-on. The man raised a brow, unimpressed by the interruption, before the corners of his lips turned downwards and he gave a lazy shrug.

“Who do you think?” He asked in return.

Which had Lance seeking out the formless lump to their right and staring at the back of Takashi’s head in surprise. Why would he-

“He wants to see you off tonight,” Keith explained. “You might call it a hero complex, I just think it’s bullshit. He still feels bad about leaving you alone last week. Felt even worse after we nearly killed you."

“And what, you don’t?” Lance muttered bitterly though some of it’s forced. And the most he’s expecting is for Keith to hum flippantly, maybe give him a flat argument and move on. But the man nosed at his throat in apology and rode Lance's flinch in order to flash him a look of slight offence.

“I feel like shit, believe me,” Keith said. “ _We_ , feel like shit, Lance,” he insisted further. But his expression quickly changed from that of sincerity to clipped dismissal as his words ran dry. “I just don’t spend my time freaking out over a problem that’s been resolved. Idiot here spent the entire night worrying about you. Drove me up the fucking wall is all he did.”

Lance's ribs rattle with an impromptu laugh and the sound had Keith quirking a brow in question. The bed dips soon after, and the man leaned up to watch him dissolve into a fit of quiet giggling in surprise.

The two business partners had been at each other's throats the entire time Lance was struggling to remember his own name and thinking back on it now was enough to have him relaxing into Keith’s hold and tossing his head back with a snort.

“That’s mean.” Lance's chuckle droned sad. “He worked really hard.”

Hard enough to succumb to an almost worrisome unconscious.

But Keith doesn’t seem to care.

Lance cracked an eye open at the sudden flinch of pressure around his waist and took the brunt of the intensity residing in the man’s gaze. Keith’s cheeks had pinked, and though his embarrassment was evident, he didn't necessarily shy away when he cleared his throat and nodded in agreement to Lance’s earlier observation.

“Yeah, he did.”

His words burn themselves into the exposed skin at the back of Lance's neck, and Lance lets his smile thin into something a little more serious when he feels the slightest graze of wet heat below his ear.

Something catches in the air. The crackling is unmistakable.

“You should really thank him when he gets up,” Keith suggested; voice incredibly quiet, but resonating far too loud in Lance’s ears.

Like bathroom all over again.

And like some shitty re-run, Lance was relying solely on trust as Keith hid behind the safety of his back and forced him to judge off of tone and voice alone. For the second time, Lance was caught between a rock and a hard place as desire pummeled reason and thrill overpowered caution.

Keith’s hand braced itself warm on his hip and the faint brush of his fingertips had Lance stilling under the underlying promise. They hold strong. Patient.

Two things Lance throws out the window the second Keith purrs, “You could thank me now if you want,” and flashes a dirty smile.

So let’s make this worth the wait.

Lance had always wanted to see the look on Keith’s face when his taunting backfired. When what he encouraged Lance to do actually became a reality and not just him floundering and fighting back with flustered quips of his own.

Spinning be damned, all it takes is a quick hook of his arm and an awkward angle of his neck to have him tilting his head back and dragging Keith down into a bruising kiss he never saw coming.

It's was worth it. Even though the technique is shit. Lance winced when their teeth clicked together and soiled whatever landing he’d been going for. But Keith, Keith seemed entirely too stunned to notice the impact and was focused more on the fact that Lance was kissing him than the fact that Lance was kissing him _horribly_.

 _Lance_ was kissing _him._

It's a look Lance would never regret once he had the nerve to open his eyes and _see it_. The shock that crossed his expression. The sheer width of his eyes as he spazzed and squeaked quietly in his throat. 

It's probably the best decision he's made in a long while. Quite possibly the worst, all at the same time. 

Because actions had consequences and Keith was damn good at seeing them through. 

He reared up and Lance’s hand fell from where it had hooked around his neck with a sharp jerk so his knuckles could flap him across the face and prompt him to produce a faint grunt of pain as the movements were lost to him. But then there was a hand slamming flat beside his head, another held tight at his shoulder, and he yelped when it twisted him flat against the mattress and made it so much easier for Keith to do what Lance had failed to do the first time.

No teeth, just tongue.

Keith’s tongue in Lance’s mouth and Lance’s tongue in Keith’s.

The influx of embers crackling throughout the room ignited, Lance was engulfed, and its Keith who drags him deep into the smoldering inferno as their tongues slid in greeting and traced to refresh their past history.

Lance knew it'd be like this even though he'd worked hard to delay it. He knew the time he spent worming his way into the hearts of his targets, he'd unconsciously allowed the same to happen to him. Extraction would be excruciating; Lance wasn't sure how he'd fair in the aftermath, but he didn't have enough wits to think about it further as he pushed against Keith in an effort to drag himself closer. Lets a pale hand steady him at his side before reaching up to cup Keith’s face between his palms frantically. He traced the morning stubble, teased his tongue along the roof of Keith’s mouth, and squirmed beneath the resonating purr of approval powerful against his belly.

He gulped, shuddered around Keith’s nudging thigh, and had to burn the way said man was staring at him in his memories for years to come when they break for air.

“Your head-” Keith started breathlessly, but Lance quickly shook it, _shut up,_   _it’s fine_ , and clawed at Keith to come back.

_Come back, come back, come-_

_I’m here,_ Keith nipped and he shook at the way Lance licked back into the heat of his mouth a hummed his content. Hands roam. Lance isn’t sure how his own ended up grasping at Keith’s back but there they are. And Keith’s hand-the one previously caressing his cheek-had somehow managed to work itself down his throat and up beneath the traitorous give of his too baggy shirt.

Combustion is imminent.

Lance isn’t sure he can hold out.

Not when Keith’s hand seared flat along the quivering planes of his belly, teasing at the elastic waistband of his boxers, and soothed up along the concave of his rib-cage. He takes his time exploring, letting Lance take the lead in his mouth while his hands adventured down below.

It’s a distraction he hopes would keep Lance from—doing exactly _that_ when he flicked at his nipple and circled the pad of his thumb along the dusky flesh in apology.

Keith winced at the piercing dig of Lance's teeth and tasted a spidering of iron mere seconds after.

“Fuck,” they both say, each of them out of breath.

Keith tongued at the break in skin and caught a trailing line of blood while Lance, who eventually tasted the aftermath, scrambled to issue an apology of his own.

He gasped, “Sorry,” and arched best he could in search of Keith’s hovering touch. “Sorry, Keith. _O_ _h-_ ”

“You’re _mouth,"_  Keith drawled, _"_ Is undoubtedly going to get us into trouble.” He licked a wet stripe up the line of Lance's throat and eyed the way his body shook uncontrollably.

He rolled his eyes back, clenched his thighs closed around Keith’s parting knee, and gasped when the friction hit right where he needed it. From then on, Lance can’t help but roll his hips and moan brokenly at the feel.

“P-Put it to use then, Kogane,” Lance challenged quietly and he received a blunt row of teeth for his efforts; sinking deep into the soft skin of his throat and sending him moaning whorishly before it bled into a shocked whimper. Keith laves a tongue along his rupturing veins and he waits for the sting to ease before he sets out for another.

Lance glares at him, lips parted in desperate search of air, and he watches the man watch him. Eyes flickering as a silent debate waged war in his head.

Then Keith knocked his hips forward, and the grind-that’s what it had to be right?-dragged the prominent bulge of his sweats up against the swell of his ass and held there to make a statement.

He flashed a grin. “Next time.” 

And Lance can only hope before Keith is palming him through his boxers and outlining the damp heat of his weeping cock with a sharp tug. His muscles spasm, his throat works, and his dick throbs as a strained moan drew life from his lungs and died the second Keith was smart enough to catch it.

He kissed Lance deep. Keith hadn’t had the chance to do so last time and he was dead set on seeking compensation.

Lance was going to give him everything.

“I need you to be quiet.” Keith nibbled at the underside of Lance’s jaw and watched him sink his teeth into the swollen edge of his lower lip to restrain a moan. “Can you be quiet?" He asked, and after thinking a moment, added, "For _me_?”

And Lance nodded dumbly because yeah. _Yes_. He can be so fucking quiet for Keith.  _God,_ did he even have to ask?

“Good boy.”

And that. That’s- _oh_.

Lance goes pliant in Keith's arm and shivers openly when the man gives him a puzzled look. But puzzlement washed into understanding, and Lance wasn't sure he was ready to open this can of discovery when the man flashed a slight grin. 

“You like that, huh?” He caught. “Being my good boy?”

Lance rolled his hips back into Keith’s own in response and squeezed his eyes shut as the words washed over him. It had been Keith last time, he realized. Keith giving him the praise he needed to feel like he had been worth it. Like he'd been worth the fuck.

And Keith is _so_ generous with it. He teases at the line of Lance's boxers and asks permission with his eyes, much like Shiro had done, before moving only when Lance gives him a jerky nod of consent.

And he works _slow_. Keith gives Lance every opportunity to put up a hand and tell him to stop, but he doesn’t. Lance _should_ , especially with Takashi sleeping only one roll away, but it’s impossible to find the right words when Keith is staring at him so eagerly.

“Fuck,” Keith hissed and Lance flushed red at the sheer arousal evident in the man's voice and the mess he'd made of his shorts and skin. Not that it seems to bother Keith in the least. The man just curses, "Look at you," and Lance's fire turns deadly as the praise hits home.

It wasn’t the first time Keith had seen the smaller mans dick, but it had him aching painfully nonetheless as he dragged his finger through the mess. “You're fucking perfect,” he breathed.

And Lance tries to be.

He keeps quiet when Keith disappears even though he wants to scream. And he stays silent even though he wants to moan when Keith comes back touching his apologies.

Lance rolls onto his side-back to square one-and doesn’t even yelp when Keith grabs at his knee, lifting his leg up and under the man’s own to spread him wide and vulnerable for God and everyone to see.

But he’s good.

Keith tells him he’s good and they’re words that he never thought he needed to hear until Keith said them to him.

“You're so good for me, Lance," he says. "I swear I'll be good for you too. Give it to you like you deserve."

Lance clapped a hand over his mouth and snapped his eyes closed. Keith had taken to mouthing at the base of his neck, lips burning along his flesh and leaving a trail of what Lance was afraid were second-degree burns because it was so fucking _hot_.

His dick was standing at attention and he wanted to tell Keith to stop teasing and do something about it but Takashi shifted suddenly and the need died in his throat. If Shiro were to wake up, there would be nothing there to hide their current predicament. No shield of darkness to laugh it off. No privacy in _general_.

So how was he supposed to tell Keith anything if he was supposed to be quiet? He didn’t want to wake Shiro, but the idea of Keith keeping silent just-

His pulse jumps.

“Lance,” Keith said immediately. “What’s wrong?”

It’s not a question and Keith won’t wait for an answer, but Lance feels his brain throw itself into overdrive as he tried to work out a solution on his own.

He wasn’t supposed to talk, right? Keith said he needed to be quiet. And he’s fine. He’s fine, he’s fine. But his nerves are on fire, and Keith’s hands aren’t touching him anymore they’re just fussing and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to _do_.

Keith was talking now, right? This wasn’t-This wasn’t like the other times. This wasn’t some hotel quickie with his head pressed into the sheets and the only sound coming in guttural grunts or sharp cries. Was it?

His lungs shudder horribly before he can figure it out.

“Lance, what’s wrong?” Keith demanded again. “Breathe. Lance, breathe, okay? You’re doing so good for me, aren’t you? So good. Just tell me what hurts.”

Lance gasped. "N-Nothing,” he shivered, hands shaking, legs quivering, and he must be crying at least a little bit because Keith drags a thumb along his cheeks and looks concerned now.

“Lance,” Keith whined desperately. “Be good for me.”

Fuck.

“It’s nothing,” Lance whispered again but Keith looked skeptical. “I just got overwhelmed. I’m fine now, I swear, just. Just talk to me. I can be quiet, just, please. Please, Keith.”

Keith stared at him. Lance would flush, but his face was already red with arousal and the feeling had yet to flag with the man practically hanging off of him. And though, for a moment, Keith looks as if he’s going to pull the brakes, the uncertainty fizzles and he leans down to press a quick kiss to the sting at Lance’s temple.

“We don’t have to,” he starts gently, but Lance shakes his head. He couldn't imagine packing everything up when they've only just unloaded. 

“I want to,” Lance tells him. Means it, despite everything, and stares into the violet pool of Keith’s eyes when the man leaned in to swipe his tongue along his.

Lance hummed in gratitude as the weight of keeping quiet was momentarily lifted. Keith reached around, nails grazing the curve of Lance’s thigh, and he hums in question this time before Keith's roaming fingers curled tight around his leaking cock and sent stars bursting beneath his eyelids.

Keith plunged his tongue deep and swallowed the choked moan that punched from Lance’s chest with ease. He offered a few languid strokes, taking his time to watch Lance squirm and writhe, and spared him the embarrassment of being premature by grazing his way downwards. Over the soft strip of skin, down over his perineum, gripping gently at his balls. 

Lower _still_.

He broke away panting. His hand grasped at Keith’s venturing wrist and clung tightly for something to hold onto while keeping a physical understanding of what it was the man was doing.

There was a soft pop, a tilt to Keith’s weight, and then lips were on his again distracting him from the harsh movement happening below.

It’s warm. The beach back at home kind of warm that seeps into his bones and has him grateful for the bearable heat. The bunch of his shirt offered a slight reprieve to the cool draft throughout the room, but Keith was forever a warm presence at his back, fire on his neck, and scorching in his mouth as he hummed. Sent the soothing vibrations bleeding into his skin as he moaned in return and felt it lodge when a burning digit slid between his ass cheeks.

He pulled back to gasp, but Keith rode his surprise and made sure no sound left his parted lips.

Something about it makes his brain trigger even though sex wasn’t anything new to Lance. He’d fucked, been fucked, and was confident in his skills when it came to the matter. But the vulnerability of such an act was still an obstacle he was learning to face. What came after had always been a disappointment and he's not sure if Keith and Takashi would be any different.

“Breathe, Lance,” Keith instructed, and Lance felt his inhale hitch wrong as soon as the slicked up finger breached his resisting entrance.

God, he hoped they were different.

Keith cupped at his jolting cock and ran the moist heat of his mouth along his nape in approval. He waited until the aftershocks of pleasure eased out of the tension in Lance’s abdomen before slowly thrusting his finger up into the surrounding pressure fluttering with uncertainty.

“Relax,” Keith murmured. "Easy."

Lance tossed his head back against the man’s shoulder and stifled a sob. Keith’s finger slid deep, no introductions needed, and it dragged rough along his inner walls in ways that he hadn’t been able to achieve on his own for the past _year_. And as soon as he curled a finger, Lance dissolved into violent shivers and an unconscious retreat as the burn of pleasure pooled low and sparked his nerves.

He wants to curse. Wants to moan and pant and let Keith hear how good it felt, but he can only bite at the corner of the pillow and roll his hips back into the intrusion with a quiet groan.

"More?" Keith asks.

Lance hates that he has to.

The second pinch of pressure is dulled by Keith’s skill, whatever lube he’d pulled out of thin air, and the fact that he drives it straight into his prostate without so much as a warning. It has every joint in his body locking up and his brain shorts at the overwhelming mix of pleasure and teetering pain while his cock drooled and sought desperately for a feeling to go on.

He thinks he's gonna come. Two fingers is pushing his endurance, but Keith is resilient and has a third working in beside the two; scissoring him open before he can so much as scramble and grab at the base of his dick to hold off.

His back bows, Keith scolds him, "No," and he slaps his hand away before thrusting his fingers deep and stretching him until the burn had Lance clawing at the sheets and curling his toes. His cock drools, he needs stimulation, but he pleads with Keith to let up so he doesn’t come.

“That’s kinda the point, Lance,” Keith says gruffly. “Shiro fucked you once. I’m gonna make sure I fuck you twice.”

And shit.

They still weren't over that?

Lance wasn't complaining but  _they still weren't over that?_

Lance ducked his head down and clenched his teeth around a knuckle when Keith sank his fingers impossibly deep, stabbed at the bundle of nerves over and over, and hooked a digit upwards until Lance was drooling against the sheets and sobbing silently. Keith twists his wrist and grinds relentlessly even though Lance has reached his breaking point. And by then it's too much.

It’s too much. Too much, too much, and Keith won’t fucking let up, and he knows he’s about to come but he just needs that final push, and oh _fuck_ does Keith give it to him.

“Come,” Keith says.

How hard, Lance has the mind to think.

Hard enough that the edges of his vision line dark.

Lance can’t scream but god does he want to. The burn is excruciating. His toes curl, joints pop, and he tastes blood where his knuckles can’t withstand the gnashing of his teeth any longer. Pleasure sends him quaking and spinning and his cock pulses hot against his stomach as he spilt against the sheets and curled into a trembling mess of over stimulation.

His nerves are shot.

He's fried.

Keith takes Lance’s limp hand and he can't even fight it as he examines the shredded line of damage with a frown and carefully slips his fingers free; petting his hip to settle him.

“You’re so good, Lance. Fucking amazing, I swear.”

Lance shivered and rallied enough to give Keith a weak smile and a thumbs up. His legs feel like jello, and it’s damn near impossible to move when Keith tells him to, so the man gentles him back onto his side and rubs a thumb over his sensitive slit for his efforts.

“Okay?” Keith asks quietly.

Lance nods and leans back to kiss the corner of Keith’s mouth to reassure.

He made it this far, hadn't he?

He loses the heat of Keith’s hand soon after. The disappearance jars him and he looks back just in time to watch the man drag his sweats down in one swift movement and sigh at the freedom.

Keith’s dick curves beautifully against his naval, head glistening the same way it had done before Lance had swallowed it those few nights ago, and he feels his stomach quiver eagerly when Keith dragged his eyes up to look at him and they darkened.

His pupils spilled inky through the dark violet and his skin flushed red with need when Lance lapped at his lower lip and stared. He knew he was faring no better in terms of composure, but Keith looked absolutely wrecked.

Feral.

He bares his teeth and Lance knows it takes every bit of restraint when he finally, _finally,_ lines his cock up with his slick hole, thrusts to catch it on the loose rim, and breaches the ring with a simple ease of his hips.

Keith grabbed at his knee, spread him open, just wide enough so he could see where the head of his cock had edged between Lance's legs, and rolled his hips from behind as he battled with the awkward positioning.

“Shit.” Keith laughed breathlessly. He snagged his lip on a canine, pressed his forehead between Lance’s shoulder blades, and sank into the velvet heat of his body as slowly as he could physically manage. Until Lance gasped, the first real sound he’d made in what felt like hours, and had him desperate to bite down on his hand again. The pillow, _Keith's_ hand even. But Keith keeps him pinned against his chest and helpless to the feel as he slowly fed the length of his cock, inch by inch, and bottomed out.

Keith gasped. “Don't—Don’t tighten up like that, holy shit.”

And he hates him. Lance hates him so fucking much it hurts. First, he can’t speak, now he can’t react the way his body was supposed to react. And it’s practically impossible not to tighten up when Keith was teasingly pulling out and pushing back in, setting a steady pace that had Lance rocking back to meet him halfway.

His dick gave a valiant effort to regain lost interest and all it takes a well-aimed thrust to have him hard and leaking with a soft cry into his forearm.

Keith cursed behind him in response and sank his fingers into the inner crease of his thigh to get a better angle. Curled around Lance and fucked him like he’d dreamt about doing for weeks now and damn near lost his mind with the surge of adrenaline that lit up in his veins.

Because he didn’t get this with Shiro; the power high. Subordinates stayed subordinates, and no matter how many times Shiro let Keith take him, it was never enough. This though. Lance’s unquestioning submission to him.

Keith drove himself forward and moaned into Lance’s startled cry desperately. Whatever dam the man had built up had quickly toppled down as he choked on a sob and scrambled for purchase.

“K-Keith,” Lance whimpered deliriously. “Please. Please, please, please, Keith— _ah_.”

Keith groaned, sounding completely and utterly wounded, and wanted to hear his name pour from Lance's swollen lips for the rest of his life.

But Lance doesn't call out to him again.

Instead, Shiro does.

“ **Keith**.”

Keith tensed and Lance’s walls fluttered around him impatiently when he stilled, eyes flickering open, and peaked up over a bronze shoulder to meet the spiralling rage behind Shiro’s glare.

“What,” the man heaved a breath, “What the  _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

Keith grinned wolfishly. 

An array of conflicting emotions ran across Shiro’s features all at once until they smeared into something raw and on the verge of literally everything. Confusion. Anger.

 _Jealousy_.

Keith knew this would get to him and fuck would he be paying for it for the rest of his life, but the thrill of upping Shiro, dominating for the first real time, had him fucking up into Lance without a care in the world.

“What does it look like?” Keith said smugly.

Lance rolled his head to the side, eyes closed, lips wet, and Keith cut and tongued at the bruises he left running up the side of the man's throat possessively.

Shiro stared. That's all he _could_ do.

A straining tent took up in his partners pants and Keith was only generous enough to cling at Lance’s knee and spread his leg wider. Wide enough that Shiro’s gaze snapped downwards, and a punched out, “ _Lance_ ,” rattled its way from his strained lungs.

He watched the slow drag of Keith’s cock sinking in and out, in and out. Each venture inwards sending Lance’s own cock jolting against his belly and glistening with pre-come.

He could rip the smaller man away. Dare Keith to challenge him and take what was rightfully his in the first place.

Because Shiro had earned that.

He _earned_ it.

But...

“Lance,” Shiro said again, and this time, the man heard.

Blue eyes brimmed with pleasure rolled open, dazed, not entirely focused yet, but when they finally locked in on Shiro’s unwavering stare, Keith cursed something violent as he tightened up.

“Fuck, Shiro. He’s so—” Keith huffed. “ _Dammit_ , Lance,” he gasped.  

Lance wasn't listening, though. He looked at Shiro helplessly at first, and then the open look of desire got lost in the surge of horror that had him scrambling at the give in his shirt and covering the slick bob of his cock against the sheets.

“Takashi,” he panics. “I-I didn’t— _oh_ , Keith. Shit, Keith— _ah_.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” Shiro warned Keith roughly, locking eyes with the man’s taunting violet as he sheathed himself within Lance’s body and rolled his hips in a filthy grind.

“Kill me,” He says, and Lance sobs.

Shiro watched Lance squeeze his eyes shut again and the previously light gray of Shiro’s loaned shirt was now spotting dark with the man’s arousal and making it incredibly hard for him to keep from losing control.

“God, look at you,” Shiro resolved to whisper. Lance squeaked in surprise, unaware of Shiro's closeness and bit down on his lip to stave off what was quickly building into a scream.

“You’re taking him so well, aren’t you? Even though he’s been so mean.”

Lance rocked and Keith shot him a glare.

“Stop it,” he spits.

Shiro thumbed at Lance's lower lip and damn near lost it when the pad of his digit was gently suckled. “Beautiful," he panted. "You've been so good for him, Lance. And I bet you'll be even better for  _me._  I just know it.”

Keith’s hips stuttered and Shiro took it and ran, catching Lance’s chin between his pointer and thumb so he could tilt the man’s head up and look him in the eye.

He’s close.

Keith wouldn’t know that since Shiro had been the first to fold Lance in half and fuck him into the mattress, but he could tell Lance was just waiting for that final push.

So Shiro dipped his tongue into the man’s waiting mouth and hummed into the familiar taste. “You're taking Keith so beautifully right now, sweetheart. Do you want to come? I know you can come for me, Lance. I know you can.”

“I-I can,” Lance choked, rocking back into Keith below but edging closer to Shiro above. He threw his arms around Shiro’s neck and writhed against him; desperately seeking friction even though Keith was doing everything in his power to provide it.

He sped up. “Knock it off,” Keith snarled. “He’s gonna come with my cock or he’s not coming at all.”

“He’s going to come for me.”

Keith sent him a threatening look. “Shiro,” he warned and Shiro flashed him the tiniest of smiles. "Shut the fuck up, Shiro!"

Lance clawed up Shiro’s back and whimpered hotly against his throat. “Please,” he begged. “Please, please, Takashi. ‘Kashi, please, I need-”

"Come for me, kitten." 

And then Lance is screaming a slew of what Shiro thinks are obscenities and his nails are biting deep into his back savagely as the shirt jumps against each weak rope of white that spills onto the material. He whimpers, crashes into Shiro when the pleasure gets too much and chokes on a sob when Keith finally stilled with a cutting, “ _Fuck_ ,” and fired his load deep into Lance's accepting body.

He collapsed bonelessly against the smaller man, heaved, and curled a protective arm around Lance’s waist with a cutting glare. “You did that shit on purpose,” he snarled. "I can't believe you. You  _fucking-_ "

Shiro flashed his partner a wicked grin and turned his attention to where Lance lay; silent, save for a few tiny whimpers that found their way against the sheets.

He’s done for. A goner.

Fucked out and left to float in his own drunken daze of post mind-blowing sex until hands are grabbing at him again.

There’s a struggle. Keith throws a curse, maybe an elbow, and the arm around his waist starts tugging too tight before it quickly slackens and Lance is left to groan as a metal hand eased him forward. 

They hiss in unison, Keith and him, as his softening cock slipped out of him slowly. But Lance doesn’t protest. Not when he’s laid on his back and not when he's spread for Takashi to fit himself between his bruised thighs and settle.

“Lance,” Shiro coaxed gently. “Sweetheart, come back to me, okay? I need to know you’re alright.”

And fuck being alright, Lance was great. Lance was more than great. So great, in fact, that he slurs his content with a quiet, “M’good. S’good, ‘Kashi," and let Shiro brush the damp curls from his forehead with a low hum. He was tenting impressively, and Lance had felt the power behind the man’s thighs once before. A memory that had him eager to feel them again as he stared up at the man and blinked owlishly.

“Can you go again?” Shiro brushed at his lower lip in question. “Are you okay to?”

Lance thinks they worry too much.

His hips hurt from being locked into position for too long, and he's sure he's going to be feeling Keith for a few days after this. Shiro for weeks. But the room stays stable and, from what he can tell, his stitches are holding up quite well to his few vigorous movements.

So he locked his knees tight around Shiro’s hips with a nod of dazed invitation and linked his arms around the exposed neck to brace himself.

“Show me who's boss, sir,” he joked.

It was a _joke_. 

And, for the sake of humour, Lance had given some thought to how he would go when the time came for his short life to come to an end. He figured it’d be something as mundane as a heart-attack, maybe falling down the stairs. Getting hit with a support beam hadn’t yet made it on the list but he supposed it worked just as good as any assumption.

But right here, in this moment, Lance can only imagine the look of absolute horror on his Mama’s face when his headstone read: Here lies Lance McClain. Died from the greatest dicking of all time.

Because Shiro would be the death of him.

Takashi just might kill him today.

“Tell me how Keith felt,” he demanded.

And the tone is one that has Lance's smile dissolving into something panicked as the man reached an arm up and gripped chokingly tight along the headboard. The grays of his eyes had ruptured violently into that of a black hole and it sent shivers over Lance’s skin while his nerves lit up with sensible fear. He sounded frustrated; irked.

Like the doings of _Keith_.

Lance keened when Takashi fucked two fingers deep into the loose heat of his hole and dragged over the swollen sensitivity of his inner walls. He curled a finger, searching, and didn't need the help of Keith's advice this time as he raked his eyes up when Lance still had yet to answer him.

“Perfect,” Lance blurted. " _Deep,”_  he moaned.

“Yeah?

“Yesss,” Lance hissed. He ground his ass down onto Shiro’s hand and arched at the shock of pleasure that rattled up his spine and sent him twitching.

It had Shiro quirking his wrist experimentally and watching Lance’s eyes roll. “I bet I could do you better,” he said. “I bet I could fuck you _full_.”

“It’s not a competition,” Keith snapped.

And Lance suddenly remembers the man's existence. He looked up, stared at the childish grit of Keith’s teeth and watched his jaw work when Shiro flashed him a taunting look.

It’s...It’s downright childish is what it is.

And once again, Lance can't help the incentive to laugh as the situation registered in his mind. It’s airy and lighthearted; a sound that has both men halting in their silent face-off when it rings through the room.

Takashi catches the flash of teeth and Keith blinks under the pure light of Lance’s eyes as he giggled.

“W-What?” Shiro stuttered; lighting up the line of his scar in a bashful pink. Because the last thing he wanted was to be laughed at when he had his dick pressed up against Lance's ass.

Lance, who holds a bloody knuckle delicately to his lips and peeks up at them with nothing but calm ocean blues.

“Not really a competition when I’m so far in the lead, boys,” he snickered.

Takashi throws Keith a flabbergasted look and turns back to Lance with a dopey half-smile. “That so?” He challenged.

And Lance bit deep into his lip with a nod as Shiro’s gaze sharpened for the kill.

“Yeah,” he breathed shakily. "You two really need to step up your-”

Game. This was all a game.

Lance tries to remember this as Shiro rips off his shirt and looms over him with determination etched deep into his marrow. Tries to remember this when he fingered at the give in the businessman's pants and eased them over the swell of his ass to release his throbbing erection with a wet, _slap_.  

Shiro’s big. Bigger than Lance remembered, and his stomach does an odd little flip once he realized thigh fucking wouldn’t cut it this time.

Shiro would be inside him. Splitting him open and making Lance take it like he should’ve done the first time around.

And that is exactly what he does.

The first push is tentative and absolutely maddening. The head of Shiro’s cock was definitely thicker, as was the rest of him, and the only thing setting the two apart was when it came to length. Not that now is the time to be comparing but, _heh_ , Lance was in a position where he _could_ compare. 

He pushes again and Lance tosses his head back as the burn of intrusion grew with each inch fed past the soft ring of muscle. Until Shiro had nearly sheathed himself fully and swallowed with a grunt; brows knit tightly in concentration. 

"Tight?" Keith taunted. 

Shiro shot him a murderous look. "Don't touch him."

“T-Takashi, wha—"

Lance rakes his nails down the bulge of Shiro’s forearms and hangs on for dear life when their hips snap together; Takashi bottoming out with a feral grunt.

He pulls out quickly, and Lance meets him with a choked gasp as the head of his cock brushed against his prostate on the first go and continued that way until they weren’t moving so languidly.

Shiro braces his hands on each side of Lance’s head and rams his hips forward. He forces Lance to lock his ankles at the top of his ass or risk toppling off his piercing dick as he thrust forward and sent the smaller man reeling and crying.

“Fuck!” Lance yelps. “Fuck, ‘Kashi, holy—“

Stars burst beneath his eyelids and he feels his cock jump in burning need as Shiro prowled low and drove himself deep inside him in wild abandon. Fucked him rougher than Keith did or ever could do to leave his rightful mark on the man that should've been his _first_.

" _Mine,_ " Shiro snarls and the pitch wrecks him.

Lance felt his toes curl, eyes rolling, and he went easily enough when Shiro nosed beneath his jaw and overlapped Keith’s earlier nips with crueller ones of his own.

His nerves fray.

Shiro moans.

And Keith lifeguards the situation intensely from the sidelines. If it got to the point where things needed to stop, he wouldn’t hesitate to tackle Shiro to the floor should Lance’s colour pale or something ill feed into his blissed out expression.

This wasn't like Shiro's late-night paranoia. Keith had a right to be unnerved. No matter what he tried to tell himself, he had never seen Shiro act like this before. Every physical behaviour, every click of movement, shift of muscle, it all screamed danger. Shiro was exhibiting homicidal tendencies and, technically, should’ve snapped Lance’s neck by now.

But there’s only a light bark of laughter, a chest-rumbling chuckle trailed by Lance’s own humour, and for a moment, Shiro isn’t Shiro at all.

He’s a completely different person.

Someone, Keith could almost picture being like today had he never ended up in the streets.

Had he never met _Keith_.

Whatever amusement the two had found between them choked off into breathy moans and Keith blinked out of his prowl of inner misery to stalk closer with a trace of his lower lip.

Pebbles of sensitivity had broken across the line of Shiro’s arms and rivets of sweat broke free from his nape. The clear lines found purchase along corded muscle and reluctantly cascaded further down into the curve of his back where he felt their chilling journey cut short. Lance was soothing instead of clawing at the angry lines etched into his skin and he soon found placement beneath his jaw to pull him into a needy kiss.

Streaks of white bled from his vision, the pleasure subsiding into a pulsing ache, and he could feel a triggered unfurl of something molten at the base of his cock as he ground incredibly far and held. He focused on Lance. Lance beneath him, Lance around him; dug his nails into the mattress as the tight heat drew him in and fit around him perfectly.

Shiro only wished he opened his eyes sooner because there was no doubt Lance was absolutely beautiful. His eyes were half-lidded, lips swollen and parted, practically begging Shiro to fuck him harder as his ribs jumped and fluttered with jittery inhales.

Shiro needed this. He _needed_ this.

He loved Keith, he did. But Keith was his every day. His routine. The man held the same damn weight on his own shoulders and offered no reprieve from the hell that was their day to day.

Call him desperate, he didn’t care.

Lance was clean. Lance was new.

And when he fucks Lance, he does so in chase of a release that goes beyond sexual pleasure.

Shiro moved low, clung to the smaller man and shivered under the fleeting caresses soothing down along his throat and over the violent pounding of his heart. They rock heavily, breathing against one another and pawing in search of anything to hold onto as their venture reached its climax.

He’s vaguely aware that Lance is kissing softly against his jaw. Whispering sweet nothings and endless encouragement as a tortured groan ripped free of his chest and left him shuddering in peaked anticipation.  

“So good, ‘Kashi,” Lance gasped. “You feel so good. _Yours_.”

Shiro whimpers brokenly, knocking their foreheads together and listening to the stuttering clip of Lance’s air as he thrust once, drove himself straight into Lance’s sensitive insides, and felt his body lose it in a spasm of limbs and velvet heat.

His orgasm is a tsunami and Lance is his life raft. Steady and keeping him afloat as the waves rose up incredibly high and wrecked him from head to toe.

He’s gasping, whining pitifully and biting his grunts into the naked curve of Lance’s shoulder as he was wiped out and washed ashore; broken and battered.

“It’s okay,” Lance pants. He sweeps back Shiro’s hair and uses his other hand to hold him tight between his trembling thighs as he tells him, “You’re okay. You’re okay," through the aftershocks. "Keith,” he pants. "K-Keith, don't—“ 

"I'm here," Keith whispered, suddenly close. "I'm here.”

Lance dropped his head back and rapidly blinked the tears from his vision once he realized they were staying.

He inhales.

Exhales. 

 _Breathes_ with them. 

Thinks that, if this was what the domestic life felt like, then he should've never started with Takashi and Keith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws apology at you and runs*  
> I keep breaking update promises and I’m forever sorry but you guys are always so patient and awesome about it so I really wanted to make this chapter worth the delay, if only a little.  
> I also really want to thank Nutella0mutt for being a badass writing buddy and art provider. She commissioned me art from the incredible [KIRIIGLUMANDA](http://kiriiglumanda.tumblr.com/) and I hope you guys get as much joy out of it as I did. (Also if you guys ever get impatient with my sporadic updates or just can’t take me anymore, I highly recommend Nutella0mutt's [Guide and Guard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9039827/chapters/20579666rel) fic. It's hands down!)  
> You can also find the art that goes with the chapter [Here](https://eunioa9.tumblr.com/post/173582422023/commission-done-by-kiriiglumanda-who-is) which is also my tumblr! I would love to come find you if you wanna drop yours below or just follow that there. Whatever works!  
> Thank you all so much for your patience, seriously. I know I made this wait harder than it should've been.


	16. Sticking With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Ari for stabbing me with a shank of motivation. This chapter is still smut heavy, so if you want to get right to the cliffhanger, you’re more than welcome to cut down to where there is a break in the writing!

There was something to be said about a man or a woman who didn’t even flinch at the prospect of having to report live on a disemboweled body. Or those who readily strapped into a bulletproof vest and prayed to whatever god there was that it would be enough to get them through the midst of a shootout, all so you _,_  the public, could get in on the action without _really_ getting in on the action.

You’re welcome, by the way.

But all bitterness aside, it was apparent that journalism had quickly become an industry taunted by fast and dirty information courtesy of the internet.

Lance, Allura, every journalist in the goddamn country now had the means to whip up a budget-item, grin and bear the weight of their offence, and send out a half-assed article that had, at best, a fifty-fifty shot of catching the reader's attention. It happened before. Was happening more, even _with_ the risk of company burnout.

And the only reason Lance was still here to tell the tale was because like every other thriving journalist out there, Lance was willing and ready to put his life on the line for the sake of public entertainment.

Lance was here because he was a damn good reporter and he was a damn good reporter because all the best journalists who made a name for themselves were those who got direct experience in the real world.

Keep that in mind during the duration of this--real-life experience.  

Okay?

Lance doesn’t know what time it is exactly but he does know that a quick palming of his sockets tell him it’s late. Late enough that the sun had begun to wane through the evening bleed into night and had stamped outlines of the outside pine trees dark against the white walls. They sway, flickering back and forth on the passing breeze, and Lance tracks the movement in the quiet warmth of the room as he waited for feeling to tingle it’s way back into his lax muscles.

He starts by wiggling his toes, just to see if his spine was still working correctly, and his ankles pop in the way they always did when he first woke up. And though the process is slow going, he eventually coaxes function back into his fatigued legs and garners enough strength to try and shift his feet up under him to move.

Which, to his surprise, doesn’t work.

As soon as he went to shimmy his way out from beneath Takashi’s chest--the only reason he wanted to move in the first place--he was quickly stopped by a throbbing pulse of pressure that triggered his body to immediately tense, then tense _more_ , as his brain finally registered the source of his discomfort and sent heat zipping up his neck.

Now that’s...that’s going to be a problem.

“Shiro.” Lance tapped out on the man’s shoulder blade and received a responding squeeze and a huff of resistance for his effort. Arms like bars of steel pulled taut around his chest and Lance felt his air deflate out of him like a popped balloon as he slapped frantically this time. “Takashi.” Lance heaved. “Takashi, wake up.”

“Nhm.”

“I _know_ you want to sleep, but I seriously can’t get up when you are literally— _ngh._ ”

_Ngh?_

Shiro’s eyes shot open then, his awareness snapping into focus at the worst possible moment as embarrassment tinged bright at Lance’s cheeks and had him covering his mouth to stifle the lingering grunt.

And oh. _Oh-_

“ _Shit.”_

Lance let out a harsh bark of laughter that only seemed to increase the number of emotions playing on Takashi’s face and he paid for his it in the dissolving bubble of a moan as the man lifted up onto his hands and quickly braced them on either side of his flushed face.

He jolted, hands scrambling to grasp at Takashi’s forearms, and his nails dug tiny crescents into the innocent flesh beneath them as he angled his neck back and gave the startled man a first hand look at his fucked out expression.

Shiro breathes, “Hi,” and his scar burns a rosy pink as he fixed his eyes down on Lance’s parted lips in a daze.

“Hi yourself.” Lance smiled weakly. He shot a look downwards to take quiet stock of their little predicament, and dragged his eyes up to quirk a brow in question. “Having fun down there?”

Keith stirred then, lazy beneath the sheets, and broke the surface with a dazed expression and his hair sticking up in wild disarray, asking, “Having what now?”

Lance looked to Takashi as if to say, _go on_ , and Takashi ducked his head, pink to his ears, before flashing Lance a sorrowful look and listening to the wash of said man’s sympathetic laughter.

“I-” Takashi gulped and screwed his face up.“I think I’m stuck,” he admitted.

Keith shot up. “You’re _what?_ ”

“We are not _stuck,_ ” Lance huffed incredulously, but Takashi gave him another doubtful look and dragged his hips forward to gauge the amount of resistance he’d be met with.

And it's enough to have Lance gasping in a mix of discomfort and developing pleasure as the drag of skin burned him in all the right places and left him aching. Left him slightly horrified with himself as his dick woke up faster than the rest of him had.

“Okay, time out!” Lance threw his arms up into a X and begged his lungs to function properly when they lagged on intake. He can't focus like this. Not when Shiro was still-

“I'm sorry,” Takashi shivered. He had gone rigid between Lance's parted thighs with a helpless look and Keith frowned along with him, eyes hard with uncertainty, as Lance flashed them both a sheepish smile and tried to ease their concern.

“I think,” Lance reasoned slowly, “We should try lube before we do anything else.”

Because that sounded logical, right?

God, he didn't know. Lance could probably count the times on his fingers when he had actually woken up with a partner still in bed, let alone with his partner still _inside_ of him. And even if he’d hadthe opportunity to experience such a thing--a real life thing for those of you paying attention--Lance would’ve hoped his partners were well-versed enough to know how to handle any problems should any problems arise. Or at the very least, lack the ungodly girth of Takashi’s half-hard dick.

“I am so, _so_ sorry, Lance,” Takashi breathed miserably. His gray eyes had darkened considerably with regret and Lance shivered in relief when the man took to easing himself up a little to take the pressure off his legs. The only problem is he doesn't stop shaking and Takashi's brows quickly pinched in concern as if the last thing he wanted to do was accidentally hurt Lance  _more._

Which he hadn't in the first place, but it takes Lance a few heartfelt tries before Takashi is willing to accept the opposite.

“I’m serious, Shiro.” Lance gave a coercing nod of reassurance, chirped, “I love your dick,” and ignored the clipped huff of surprise that punched its way from the man’s chest.

Humiliation had spilled red down Takashi's neck and he broke into a throaty coughing fit as Lance clapped his hands, “Let’s get this show on the road!” and looked over at Keith expectantly. “You got it?”

Keith held up a flattened tube and wagged it between his fingers pointedly. “ _Somebody_ here used the last of it,” he snickered.

The finishing blow.

Shiro whined, " _Keith_ ," and looked ready to keel over as Lance let out a sigh and muttered, "Well, shit," with a pout directed up at the ceiling. 

Takashi’s look of puppy-like concern was visible in his peripheral and Keith’s disbelieving chuckle to his left threatened to sour his lighthearted mood as he tried to think up a solution. He supposed they could always just, go at this like one would a band-aid. With a one, a two-

“Try absolutely _not_!” They both shouted in unison.

Lance startled at the barked duet and Takashi jolted along with him as twin moans bled out between their pressed lips and had Keith falling silent immediately. Moving had jostled just enough of their earlier fun for Lance to feel an increase in the man’s movement, but there was still had an edge to the pull that threatened throbbing pain and an inability to walk should he be brave enough to push away.

“Don’t,” Takashi begged, stopping him mid conspire with a raised hand and a shake of his head. “Don't move. Just let me think for a second, okay?”

Okay. That was perfectly fine with Lance as he sank back into the sheets, hands raised in submission, and waited the man out patiently.

This wasn’t rocket science.

But Takashi's face was turning an alarming shade of purple and he continued to drill his eyes into Lance’s collarbone like the skin would flash a much needed cheat sheet and give him a pass.

It doesn’t.

So while Takashi did his best impression of an eggplant, Lance decided Keith could always just run and, oh, he didn’t know, maybe _buy_ more lube? But that would be at least an hours wait given the late commute traffic and the odd time of night. Lotion? Everybody had lotion. And hell, even spit worked in a pinch. It’d be uncomfortable, there might be some blood, but Lance had lived through way worse with _people_ way worse. This was a walk in the park all things considered.

Because Takashi and Keith were still here, trying to work out a solution to ensure not just Shiro’s comfort, but his as well, and that was already more than Lance could ask for after everything.

So really, the band-aid tactic could always be an option for the sake of their convenience. He'd survived the rush those one or two times he'd been too tipsy to care and a little too desperate to object. 

Y’know how it goes.

_Ha._

“Keith.”

Lance looked from Keith up to Takashi and found the man's face had hardened; unreadable. As if something Lance had rattled off in the midst of his reflection was being taken the wrong way. But it wasn't like Lance had said anything that should've garnered such a reaction.

Unless he had just reminded them he was still here. Reminded them that he really wasn’t _supposed_ to be.

“Keith,” Takashi said again, but this time, Lance could hear an underlying scratch of frustration in the address that wasn’t there before. He says, “Shower,” and Lance feels his breathing hasten with apprehension as the man retreated back on his haunches.

Band-aid tactic? Shiro really couldn't-

“Now, Keith,” Takashi ordered over his shoulder.

Lance sucked in a chest full of preparatory air, felt his heart beat a hole in his chest, and he barely had time to object, to tell Shiro he’ll leave—he’ll leave as soon as he can just don’t, please don’t hurt him—before Takashi was reaching up under his back and heaving him up like he weighs _nothing_.

Keith held out a hand. “You got him?”

Takashi breathed out at gentle "Yeah," in response and supported Lance’s bottom with his metal hand. “Legs, sweetheart. Wrap em’ around—yes, like that. Perfect.” Once satisfied by the position, Takashi stepped off the edge of the bed and quickly sought out Lance’s shadowed baby blues to see if any discomfort had etched into his usually soft features.

He sees awe, a blend of something impressed and heated, but more importantly, Shiro sees a flash of shock.

Lance shakes against him and he clings to the back of Takashi’s neck like a lifeline as a string of clipped gasps escaped out from between his quivering lips.

It's taking him a moment to register that Takashi wasn’t-

Takashi wouldn’t-

He _didn’t._

“Lance?”

Lance snapped his gaze up at the gentle tone and couldn’t help shaking a tad harsher when he met the brunt of Shiro’s weighted stare head on. So he tried for a smile that fell flat; eventually settled for a grimace that at least curled the corner of his lips, and knows it fails in its execution when Takashi doesn't reciprocate. “Sorry, I just-” Lance let out a wet laugh. “Usually, y’know…”

_You know..._

_Please don’t make me say it._

Something darker than Lance had seen before flickered in Shiro's gaze, there and gone in an instant as he better adjusted his grip and carried him the rest of the way to the bathroom.

“You’re in charge," he said softly. "Look at me, sweetheart.” Takashi waited for Lance to peek up at him before he drummed his fingers in a gentle rhythm along his back. “You’re in charge,” he repeated. “We’re not going to get mad if you say it hurts and you need to stop, okay? Can we take care of you?”

Takashi didn’t need to ask, but he's entirely thankful that he did when he saw the look of sheer gratitude that glazed over Lance’s eyes. He nodded, buried his face into the safety of Shiro’s neck, and refused to come out until he heard Keith kick the door closed behind them.

The smaller man helped guide Shiro up and over the raise in tile that divided marble slab from shower floor and provided the tiniest of hazards if not maneuvered correctly. The last thing they needed was for Shiro to slip right now. So Lance peeked out, gripped tight at Takashi’s neck, and tried his best to alleviate his awkward weight by locking his ankles right at the dip above Shiro’s ass.

Takashi thanked him.

Keith nudged the shower knob to the left.

And Lance realized just how bad an idea that was given the current condition of their skin. 

Keith keeled over first, yelping, “Mother-fucker,” with his lower lip caught between his teeth and he grunted as he arched forward into the tile wall trying to edge out from under the hot spray as best he could. The muscles in his back rippled with tension and Lance watched as his skin flushed red and outlined the brutal drag and dig of his fingernails like invisible ink.

Takashi chuckled. “You okay, baby?”

And Lance thought it an insult before he caught the sympathetic lilt edging into the man’s smile.

Concern, he realized.

Keith looked over his shoulder with a glare. “This is insane. _You’re_ insane. How are you not—oh, son of a bitch, that _hurts_.”

“You’re being dramatic, Keith.”

Takashi walked them under the spray to try and make a point and Lance heard himself second Keith's earlier statement with a punched hiss of agony. He’s not cut open to the extent in which he’d done to Keith, but the map of overlapping bites and well-placed finger holds don’t necessarily sing at the contact.

In fact, Takashi was the only one out of the three of them to seemingly relax into the pain before sending a crooked smile Lance’s way and winking.

“He loves them, don’t worry.”

Keith shuffled over, albeit a bit reluctantly, with a wince here, a wince there. He muttered something along the lines of, fuck body wash, as he slapped a hand against the wall and motioned them over.

“Sit down, Takashi.” Keith nudged at his shoulder. “Let's see the damage.”

From what Lance could _feel_ , he had done a good job keeping intact despite his current condition. Sore, yes, but after spending a good four hours beneath Takashi and Keith both, he was lucky sore was the worst of what he was feeling.

Shiro took his lag of silence as a means to edge back gradually and breathed, “I’m gonna,” low in warning before he tightened his hold and eased down onto the jutting slab of tile with Lance straddling his lap. They fit together with a soft sound of wet skin on skin and Lance flushed down at Shiro as he steadied himself in the new position and glanced back at Keith.

“How far can you move?” Takashi redirected.

Lance blinked at the few water droplets obscuring his vision before testing the extent of his current mobility. The slick surface had his knees sliding a bit and he was quickly forced to mold his hands against the curve of Shiro’s shoulders lest he topple over. But as he rose up on his haunches, he felt the tiniest of movement as Takashi’s cock caught painfully dry against his insides.

Lance whined, “He’s hard,” and flinched around the increase in pressure making it damn near impossible to move anymore.

Back to square one.

Keith flashed Shiro a murderous look and received one filled with just as much ire as the man flushed bright red and hissed, “I can’t help it,” to which Keith scoffed, “Bullshit,” and dropped to his knees to examine the guilty appendage with a glare. “Awesome. You’ve made this ten times harder than it needed to be.”

Lance squirmed. “Pun intended?” And now he was really beginning to feel the effects of being split open for so long.

The nagging burn had lessened a degree thanks to the heavy rivets of water drawing bold streaks along their skin, and the more he tried to move, the more he felt Takashi’s cock shift inside him with dwindling problems.

He’d been thoroughly plugged for so long after the duration of their morning activities and wriggling had proven successful in allowing whatever leftover spend of theirs to act as lubricant within him. The outside, however, was still a work in progress.

“We might need to get something after all,” Lance admitted after a few confirming bounces.

And Takashi looked as though he were on the same page, given the water had done very little to loosen what they needed loosened the most, so he craned his neck to give Keith a look of calm resignation only to flinch when the man knocked his legs apart roughly.

“I don’t need lube to work you open,” Keith drawled; the words melting over them like warm honey. 

It had Lance shivering into Takashi’s shiver because Keith’s voice alone was enough to have his dick filling in interest, flushed and eager between Takashi’s belly and his own as he looked over his shoulder and felt his world compact into this one single box of space.

“You’re kidding,” Lance huffed in disbelief.

Takashi caught Lance’s open mouthed look and immediately grasped why it had come about. It sent heat rushing to his cheeks, his teeth gnashing into his lower lip, and he quickly dug his fingers into the curve of Lance's ass to ground himself as he tried to get out a warning. “You’re gonna wanna-”

“Holy, _fuck!”_

Takashi drew blood across his tongue and grunted, “Hang on,” even though Lance wasn’t there to hear it.

The man's jaw drops, his eyes rolling back into his head, and he bucked up against Shiro’s chest before he collapsed into his lap with a strangled moan.

Keith had pressed the tip of his tongue to the root of Shiro’s cock and had begun targeting the throbbing vein that disappeared under the alluring stretch of Lance’s rim. He’s puffy and warm, well used and aching, and Keith gentles his way along the abused skin, perfectly content just listening to the moans of his lovers echoing across the shower walls.

“ _Keith,_ ” Lance whined with a toss of his head. He gasped up at the ceiling; completely oblivious to the gentle mist clinging to his lashes and the way it lit his body up in a shimmery haze of caramel hues.

Keith had to hum his appreciation and Shiro felt every vibration against his cock as the man reached up to cup at his sex and roll his palm.

“ ** _Keith,_** ” Shiro gasped this time and his thighs quivered with the violent urge to roll up into the velvet warmth, but Keith kept a steady hand at his hip and reminded him he needed to stay put.

He suckled, _stay put, baby_ , and dragged the dripping heat of his mouth to the underside of his cock to reward him for his obedience.

Takashi hissed and threw his head back against the wall to stave of the burning need to move. He needed to think. Think of Keith. Think of _Lance._ Lance, who let out a mixed gasp of pleasure and pain and had Shiro looking down to see where the shape of his fingers had begun to imprint on his skin.

“Ah-” Shiro immediately let go like he’d been burned and Lance whined at the loss of contact before his strength gave and he dropped flush with Shiro’s thighs again.

“I can’t,” Lance choked. “Keith, I can’t, I can’t.”

Keith slurped his way down to the base of Shiro’s cock and broke away gasping. He panted, stuttered on a wet inhale, and nodded to Shiro with his brow furrowed in concentration as he gave a few desperate pumps to his slick shaft. “Try it now,” he ordered.

“Slowly,” Takashi added hastily.

Lance stared at the wet part of Takashi’s bitten lips and trailed his gaze up to meet his eyes, like he was still processing. But then he nodded heavily, his motor functions on the fritz, and rolled his hips back to watch Shiro’s lashes flutter.

Keith moaned behind them and Lance looked over his shoulder to watch the man jerk himself lazily and nod, _go on_ before he finally, _finally,_ got the message and hummed his readiness.

Here goes nothing.

Lance didn’t trust himself to speak, so he stayed silent as he lifted up on his knees and felt another inch of Shiro’s cock give at Keith’s ministrations. His legs shake at the feel, and for a moment Lance worried he wouldn’t be able to sustain the position any longer when Takashi placed a supportive hand beneath his thigh and stopped him.

“Almost.”

Keith pressed a proud kiss to the base of Lance’s spine and ran the tips of his fingers along the curve to ease him back down. Lance fought to relax, felt the responding bite of Takashi’s nails grinding deep into muscle, and studied the way his gray orbs thundered with thinning patience.

“Almost there, baby,” Keith assured them both.

But Lance, still caught up in Takashi’s expression, had only prepared somewhat for the warm sensation of Keith’s tongue so he was completely caught off guard as it laved along his sensitive skin without warning.

It’s dirty; the skill that Keith harbors.

It made Lance’s past head seem like a joke in comparison. A side show before the main event.

And Keith hummed like he knew, seeming extremely pleased with himself, as Lance twitched over the vibrations rolling off the tongue working tight between his entrance and Takashi’s cock.

Lance ducked his head and hunched his shoulders to better swallow the needy moans threatening to spill from his mouth. He tried biting his lip, playing them off under the warm stream, but it ultimately takes Takashi kissing him breathless for him to feel successful.

Lance rolled his hips down onto Keith’s mouth and fed Shiro a moan that he drank with a bob of his adams-apple. His skin burned with it. The steam was making him dizzy with heat, and when he cracked his eyes open, he saw where Takashi had gone red all the same.

“You good, kitten? Need to stop?”

Lance rocked back into Shiro’s lap hoping it'd be enough of a response and melted into the sound of the man’s grunt as Keith pulled away and wrapped a hand around the base of his dick.

“Is he okay?” Keith gasped. “Lance. Baby, are you-”

“I’m so fucking good, I swear,” Lance blurted. He looked back to catch Keith's startled expression and used his right hand to brace his palm on Takashi’s knee. “I think I can even-”

Shiro growled, torn between telling Lance to stop and wanting him to keep going before he slammed his metal hand flat against the bench, " _Fuck_ ," and broke off at the heavy crack.

The tile shattered.

Lance jumped.

And that was all it took to have the head of his cock slipping free from Lance's silken heat and slapping heavy between his thighs.

Keith watched Lance fall limp against Shiro chest. His breathing was coming in sharp gasps and broken inhales, and his hole twitched, puffy and loose, before a line of their earlier spend came spilling down his inner thigh in a warm line.

The sight was absolutely damning. Filthy. And Keith was more than happy to be condemned if it meant he got a taste.

He eyed the pale line patiently, entranced by its descent, and he didn’t fully realize what it was he was doing until he was doing it. Until Lance all but screamed and Keith could taste the tang of salt heavy in his mouth.

Lance babbled into the juncture of Takashi’s neck and prayed to whatever god their was that he’d make it out of this alive. Because the pleasure was pushing the boundaries of pain and Keith just kept giving and giving and giving until his eyes were rolling back, Takashi was cooing at his temple, and his world was rupturing in a whirlwind of white heat.

“I can taste you, Shiro,” Keith moaned. “He tastes like  _us_.”

Shiro’s pupils blew out, his nostrils flaring at the observation. He desperately wanted to reach down and drag his lover into a sloppy kiss, experience that taste first-hand, but Keith stayed determined in his ventures and proceeded to drive Lance’s cock flush with Shiro’s own on the next shudder he ripped from the man’s convulsing muscles.

“Lance?” Shiro called. “How you doin’ up there?”

Keith drilled his tongue past the slack ring of muscle and felt the resonating twitch of Lance’s insides trying to work out the sensation quickly.

The man made a sound low in his throat, rolled his head to the side to catch the slight peak of Keith’s wet hair, and proceeded to tangle his fingers _through_ said hair with a harsh tug.

“Ow!” Keith jerked back. “Lance, what the hell?”

“More.”

Shiro raised a brow and glanced at Keith’s expression in search of guidance.

“More,” Lance repeated when they didn't comment. His face had scrunched in concentration and he pitched his voice in a whine when he said, “I can take it.” Lance thrust his hips into Shiro’s abdomen and moaned at the wet friction finally giving him some much needed stimulus.

He knew Keith had it in him. Knew the man could fuck him stupid right here, right now, and have no qualms about it even if Lance couldn’t walk correctly after.

But Keith was holding back. Takashi flashed Lance a bewildered look, but Lance could _feel_ it. He needed release in a way that was drastically different from Takashi, and Lance could give it to him. He needed to be told it was okay to let go. That it was okay if Lance bled a bit because Keith was never one to do anything gently.

He loved rough.

“So fucking _give_ it to me, Kogane.”

Takashi’s arms immediately disappeared from his lower back and Lance felt his stomach swoop in the free fall as his ankles were pulled out from under him and sent him hurdling face first into the shower floor.

Well, not entirely face first.

But he comes close.

Takashi lunged and caught Lance at the elbows just before his nose crunched flat against the ground and sent him crying into a puddle of blood. And Lance gasped, hands finding the precious floor that nearly ruined him before the spray cut out it's pounding against his back and left him wondering _why_.

“You want me to fuck you?”

_Oh._

Keith fit himself along the curve in Lance’s narrow back and sucked the shell of his ear between his teeth the way he knew the man lived for. His voice was rough; heated. And Lance shivered at every implication as Keith hummed low in his throat and looked at him with something deadly in his eyes.

“You are going to suck Shiro off and you are not going to waste a single drop when he comes. Do I make myself clear.”

Lance nodded frantically, felt Keith’s teeth dig brutal in his throat and squeaked, “Yes,” in submission. Added a quiet, “Sir,” that probably gave him ten times more pleasure than it did Takashi and Keith.

They groan anyway.

And Lance takes it as a silent victory only until the head of Keith’s cock was gliding easy between his ass cheeks and knocking him down a few notches.  

Keith pulled at him, “All fours, baby,” and did the same to Shiro who eventually took the message and spread his legs for Lance to work.

His heart was running wild in his chest and having Keith be a constant weight at his back was proving detrimental to his ability to think.

“Don’t think,” Keith muttered. “Just suck.”

Easy.

The water pelted against his shoulder blades as he pushed up on his hands and moved out from under the protective cover of Keith's chest. He nosed at a faint bruise, trailed his lips up the sensitive flesh of Takashi's inner thigh, and looked up through his lashes as he took the head of Shiro’s cock into his mouth.

It's the first intentional act of direct stimulation that the man has had since they fell asleep together and Lance can feel his impending orgasm in the throbbing pulse of his lower vein.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Takashi growled. He was only aware enough to keep his prosthetic hand planted firmly at his side—he didn’t need Lance’s head mimicking the current state of the bench—but he couldn't resist cramming his flesh and blood fingers through the smaller mans wet curls and bracing there with a harsh yank. “Beautiful,” he huffed. “Keith, look.”

Keith ran his hands down the flushed skin of Lance’s sides and watched his rib-cage jump; ticklish. And he spared Shiro a sliver of his attention, found the man’s eyes screwed shut anyway, and went back to spreading Lance open as gently as his desperate hands would let him.

Keith muttered, "Okay," and aligned the head of his cock to Lance's hole with a gentle press. “You ready?”

Shiro nodded, lips pulled back over his teeth in a grimace, and Lance, thinking Keith was asking him, let a substantial amount of Shiro's dick slip past his lips as he turned his head and caught Keith's eyes with a flush.

His hips rocked back and Keith's knees almost buckled right then and there as he sank a fraction of the way into Lance's heat and choked out a moan.

Shiro smirked. "He's— _ngh_. H-He's laughing."

Lance made a disgruntled noise and shot a betrayed look up at the man who blushed in apology, looked up suddenly, and barely got out an objection before Keith was drilling his hips forward and splitting Lance open in one well aimed thrust with a snarl.

And it's over.

He's done.

He's been blindsided and completely caught off guard and Lance was shooting his load up along his hands as he choked on Takashi’s dick and lost all strength in his arms. 

But he has to persevere.

Keith won’t stop on his account and Takashi doesn’t have the means to tell him to do so as he lost himself in the feel of Lance’s mouth and gasped at the desperate moan of a vibration riding along his cock.

He gasped, “Lance,” and screamed, “Holy shit,” when the man found his second wind and sank down on the last few inches that have remained out of reach; just like he’d done Keith.

No gag reflex, remember?

Keith sure as hell did.

The man laughed at Shiro’s starstruck expression and felt a hint of jealousy for it. Shiro had easily swallowed Keith down on a number of occasions throughout their relationship, but Keith had yet to get around the sheer girth of Shiro’s cock without gagging.

Lance would have to teach him.

“Beautiful.”

Keith tore his eyes away from where Lance’s lips had pressed flush with Shiro’s pelvis and caught the man’s heady expression with a smirk. He drove his hips forward, pierced Lance’s abused insides, and concentrated on the waterfall of obscenities and foreign curses muffled by Shiro’s dick. Even like this Lance was loud. Louder than Shiro and him thought possible after keeping him so quiet in bed that morning.

He moaned deep, gasped at the faintest of touches, and Keith swore he would never get enough of hearing his name roll off Lance’s tongue as the man broke for air every now and then.

Lance was really beautiful.

And Keith looked up and met Shiro’s heated stare with a nod of agreement. "He is,” Keith murmured gently; rolling his hips to bottom out.

Lance let out a soft cry that had Shiro seeing stars as he bobbed his head up and down and ran his tongue along the underside of his cock dutifully. And Keith, taken by the sight, had grown lazy in his thrusts, and only came to when Lance pushed back roughly to get the man to take a fucking hint.

Literally.

Which he does because Keith grew violent in his thrusts, bruising in his bites, and Shiro was more than happy to sit and watch Keith pound Lance into oblivion at his feet. To watch his partner _let go_.

Shiro swallowed thickly and murmured, "You too," his voice quiet against the showers intensity.

And Keith almost doesn’t hear him. He committed himself to a few more seconds of thrusting himself deep into Lance’s body before he glanced up at his partner and hit him with a question in his gaze.

“You,” Shiro repeated. “You’re beautiful, Keith.”

Keith’s hips stuttered in surprise as all his bravado, all his built up ego; gone. Obliterated by just a few measly words.

Not measly.

Not when Shiro said them.

Keith ducked his head and ground against Lance in search of his lost rhythm. In desperate need of his usual gusto. And he tries to hide his blush as best he can, but Shiro leans forward, pets a hand through Lance’s hair, and kisses Keith for what feels like the first time in _years_.

It’s tender.

It’s a promise.

It’s an apology for not saying it _more_.

Keith let his mouth fall open and he moaned into Shiro’s taste; his tongue itching to explore forgotten terrain. He grips tight at Lance’s sides, pulls him in to reach his deepest parts, and smiles against Shiro’s teeth when a soft sob echoes throughout the room.

“He’s loud.” Keith smirked against Shiro’s lips.

He felt the vibrations of a responding chuckle and the warmth that followed as the man leaned back and watched him eagerly. “I’ll try to keep him quiet.”

Now, fitting Takashi in his mouth without straining his jaw had been a challenge Lance had already willingly accepted long before he actually set his mind to it. Keith had achieved in fucking into Lance like it was his goddamn job, but Lance was about to make sucking Shiro’s dick his new career if it meant one upping the man after the shit he pulled this morning.

So as Takashi let his eyes flutter closed, Keith watched Lance sink down on his cock and swallow with minute strain. It's a sight that makes his stomach knot and his dick take dangerous interest as the look on Shiro’s face blended into a mix of adoration and unadulterated lust.

Oh, this was getting bad.

Cool fingertips followed the soft path down Lance's nape and replaced the warmth of Takashi’s flesh hand in favor of chilling metal. Keith gave a particularly hard thrust, Lance choked at the jolting movement, and tears sprung in his eyes as his lungs begged to be released from the compromising position.

“You close?” Keith asked suddenly.

Takashi nodded, “Very,” and tapped his fingers against Lance’s skin to get his attention. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay? I don't want to hurt you,” he reminded him.

And though Lance was touched by the sentiment, really he was, he couldn't resist scoffing because _really_? Lance had handled the likes of these two once before. He sure as hell could take them again.

They seemed to be forgetting this was _Lance McClain_ they were talking about.

And though Lance was more than ready for when Takashi rammed his hips upwards, fucked down his throat rougher than what was considered normal, he wasn’t entirely ready for when Takashi did it again.

And again.

And again.

Until he couldn’t differentiate between the water from the shower and the stream of tears pouring down his face.

Shiro gripped at the back of his head and stole what little air he was able to get between each punctuated thrust down his abused throat.

And to hell with walking tomorrow, how in the fuck was he going to be able to talk?

Keith rubbed his hands down and up the concave of his spine and pushed him until he was half in Takashi’s lap before mounting him with renewed vigor. He thrusts deep; purposefully sought out Lance’s prostate and pounded into him in search of the ratcheting pleasure tightening at the base of his cock because _he’s_ close.

 _Shiro’s_ close.

And Lance had been on edge since the moment Takashi had said, _hi_.

So Keith gives it his all this time around. Makes sure this mark will stay for however long it takes for them to come together like this again.

Shiro stutters, "Keith," and Keith hones in on the coiling pleasure ready to unfurl as Lance's body fluttered around him and set him off.

Lance’s eyes rolled, Shiro let up, if only for a few seconds, and then Lance was sinking to the base of his cock for the last time and purring to send him quaking with the force of his release.

Shiro broke out into a shameless string of curses that had Keith frantically trying to preserve his lovers reputation with a flash of tongue. He kept him silent with the kiss, bit his orgasm into the edge of his lower lip, and the carnage grew evident in the bloom of iron that Keith happily shared in the transfer much to Shiros distaste.

“You’re an animal,” he muttered.

Keith licked a stripe up the man’s throat and flashed him a taunting grin. “But you still love me.”

Shiro’s gaze had a tender edge to it that made Keith flush a bit more than he would’ve liked. He murmurs, "That, I do," and continues to stare at Keith even when the man coughed down the embarrassment and looked away before he said something stupid.

Something like, _I wish it could be like this all the time._

A grunt ultimately saves him.

Shiro jerked at it's abruptness, and both he and Keith looked down to watch as Lance pulled off his softening dick and gulped loud enough for them to hear. He moans, utterly spent, before toppling flat on his arms and panting against the tile.

“Quit ignoring me,” he whimpered. 

Shiro dropped to his knees with a lighthearted laugh and murmured, “How could we,” with a kiss to the man’s temple. “You're incredible, Lance. We’re so damn lucky.”

_Lucky._

Not really the ‘L’ word Lance was looking for, but he’d take it.

Moving was a bit of a struggle, but Takashi was there to help gather him upright as Keith leaned in and swept hand over his fringe to clear his obscured vision.

Lance blinked, now that he could see, and slurred, “Keith?”

Said man hummed and pressed a chaste kiss to his swollen lips with a nod. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think my ass can take round two of this,” Lance admitted.

Keith raised a brow as if to act like he understood, but Lance could see where his words had gotten lost in translation. 

Blunt it is, then.

“I'm kindly asking you to please pull the fuck out, Keith.”

Takashi doubles over.

 

* * * 

 

**10:52 PM**

_Hi, you’ve reached the voicemail of Hunk Garrett! I can’t come to the phone right now but I promise to get back to you as soon as I can. Please, I'm begging you, don’t leave a message. Lance, I mean-_

_BEEP_

 

Lance left a message. But before that, he sent Hunk a text. Then he sent _Pidge_ a text. And went back to leave Hunk _another_ message when he didn't hear back.

No one replies.

“Maybe they’re asleep?” Takashi said helpfully. “It is, um. Late, isn’t it?”

It was.

He hadn’t had the chance to call Hunk and explain why he hadn’t shown up to the house after his interview. Granted, Lance didn’t know Takashi’s work crew had been sent out to kill him, but he still should’ve had the mind to text him that morning once he realized he was well enough.

Damn him for getting caught up in Keith.

The lights in his living room window were out when they pulled up; the shades drawn. And though Lance was tempted to call Hunk for the umpteenth time, he was certain the man was smart enough to keep Pidge on lock down until the coast was clear.

If they were even home.

A quick once over of the dead to the world street and Lance couldn’t even find his best friends car anywhere. 

“So this is your…” Takashi trailed off under the uncoordinated slam of each car door and took a few tentative steps into the middle of the road. He shrugged his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, gray eyes roaming over the plastic white picket fence that wouldn’t keep a chihuahua contained, and Lance admired his ass in those jeans before he was turning to him with a strained smile.

“Home?” Lance provided with a blush; caught.

Takashi nodded, _right_ , before he went back to eyeballing the poorly lit sidewalk in newfound wonder. “It’s nice,” he smiled again, but Lance took it more as a grimace.

“It’s _small,”_  Keith called from behind them. Takashi and Lance turned to watch the man jam his thumb in the direction of the house at the end of the street and they all watched as the blinds snapped shut under the scrutiny of their attention. “The hell is that about?”

A frog croaked in disbelief and Lance rolled his eyes at the both of them in agreement as he fished around in his pocket for his keys. “They’re called _neighbors_ , Keith. And they’re actually quite pleasant when I’m not bringing strange men home at the ass crack of dawn.”

“It’s 11 p.m.”

“Strange men?”

Lance stopped riffling and stared at their expressions of impatience patiently. He decided to ignore Keith, looked at Shiro instead, and flashed him a teasing smirk. “Very strange men.” He winked.

Takashi went pink in the ears as he usually did, but he was learning quickly that Lance was all talk. All he needed was a well aimed come-back and a few meaningful touches and the man would undoubtedly crumble under the pressure. 

“Looks like we’re going to have to work on fixing that then, hm?”

 _Crumble_.

Lance looked slightly flustered and tried to pass it off by taking a few steps back towards his porch step. But Shiro advanced quickly, dodged the outstretched hands, and wrapped Lance up in a gentle embrace to spin him back under the light and further from the door.

"He's already stuck with us,” Keith commented idly. He raised a brow Lance's way and pressed his bruised lips into a nervous line. “Isn’t that enough already?”

Yes.

Lance hated himself for it but, yeah. That was enough.

He laid his head against Takashi’s shoulder and stared off at a dying rose bush with wilt to his lingering smile. The natural blanket of night time silence had made its way through the streets in his sober and the only thing left untouched was the overhead buzz of the indecisive street light.

It smelled heavy, but clean. Like it could rain any second and they were in danger of being caught in it.

It smelled like Shiro. Spice and forest. Nothing like Keith’s earth and metallic scent, but soothing nonetheless as Takashi nuzzled at the top of his head and inhaled.

He wondered what he smelled like to Takashi.

He wondered what he _looked_ like to Takashi.

Was he an easy victim? A charity case? Or did Shiro look at him and think the things he thought when he looked at Keith?

Stuff like this didn’t matter. They _shouldn't_. And Lance knew his faults as a person, as a journalist, laid in his past experiences and bad memories.

He was emotionally dependent. He was easily caught up.

Keith and Takashi were prime suspects in a missing persons case that could very well have been covered up by their hands. There was no forgetting that. No forgetting that Lance had been assigned to root himself in their lives and bleed them of everything they’d ever known for the sake of a quick buck.

No.

For the sake of _Katie_.

Lance has to mentally check himself, right now. This wasn’t some movie where everything would magically fall into place if he just wished for it to. He couldn’t be caught up in the things he wanted.

Especially when those things could get him hurt. Or worse.

“So, when are you free next?”

Keith had kicked at the ground and taken to digging the toe of his boot into an innocent patch of grass as Lance blinked into awareness. He averts his gaze, but Takashi makes a statement by holding his own when Lance looks to him for clarification.

“Like, for another interview?”

Because that would be the perfect way to get back on track. He’d be able to talk his way back to Nyma and Rolo, finally get their consent to the article, and maybe even get some more gossip once he told them about the shitty way Shiro and Keith ran their operations— _er_ , half-truth.

But Takashi held up hand to cut a line through his excitement, his shirt riding up some with the movement, and Lance could see the beginning curve of a well placed kiss mark deepening in its abuse.

His?

“We mean like,” Takashi floundered under Lance’s inquisitive stare and his grip grew slack around his waist as he tried to form a coherent sentence. “What we meant was you’re more than welcome to—to interview. If you want. But we wanted to see if, maybe _you_ wanted to-”

“Go on a fucking date, Lance. And for the love of _God_ , Shiro. Really? Really.”

Takashi brushed Keith’s playful shove away like it was a stab to the arm and sent him a glare that had Lance shivering despite himself. Keith on the other hand, tried to act unaffected even though he was blushing furiously. 

Which is ironic in it’s own way because the man was shameless when it came to sex, but a short snippet of fluff and holy hell, man down.

Takashi pushed at Keith the longer Lance stayed silent and it quickly evolved into a shoving match that ended with Keith locked in a choke hold and Takashi looking a little too determined for such harmless teasing. He might actually kill the man, though.

So Lance blurted, “Saturday,” with a laugh and watched as Takashi's head snapped up and Keith tapped out against his arm before the man immediately let go and looked at Lance expectantly. “I can do Saturday,” Lance said again and he received a bright look from Keith that was incredibly different from what he's used to and a sparkle of excitement igniting warm in Shiro's deep grays.

“Saturday, then,” Takashi beamed.

Lance smiled his promise and blushed under the farewell kisses pressed to the top of his forehead and the underside of his jaw. They’ve done a fantastic job redirecting his earlier resolve, but Lance couldn’t care less in that moment as the two men walked back a few steps, waving the entire time, and finally turned to wander their way towards their car hand in hand.

Keith leaned in to say something in Takashi's ear and Takashi responded with a bark of laughter before gently nudging Keith to the passenger side with a snicker.

_They're the ones that are beautiful._

The roar of the engine cut through the settled silence and Lance just knew he'd be getting a noise complaint tomorrow, but he waved to them nonetheless as they drove by all smiles and left him standing, by himself, on his lonely front porch.

Just like that, it's over.

Lance's world started to click back into place as he stepped out of his bubble of partnership and through the doors of his lonely reality.

Well, lonely save for Blue.

The tabby was the only one to greet him at the door and Lance chucked her under the chin to satisfy her need of affection so he could work his shoes off and make his way inward. Any moment now, Hunk would come storming into the room yelling this and that about keeping in touch. About curfew and how worried he was when he didn’t call.

But the house stayed silent and Lance was really beginning to think nobody was home when it continued that way.

“Pidge?” Lance nudged the girls door open and peered into the empty darkness that screamed odd.

Then he checked his room, the bathroom, the couch for the second time, and once again found nothing.

Pidge wasn’t here.

Had she gone home? Her stuff was all here and she would’ve had the decency to shoot Lance a text knowing how worried he would get. Had they gone out to eat? That wasn’t too far fetched. But why hadn’t either of them texted back?

Lance cursed under his breath and reached for his jacket and keys in an impending panic. He snatched his phone up to find his inbox still empty, opened up a new text box to Allura, and stumbled over Blue's poorly timed figure eight around his legs with a faint curse.. 

 

**Lance: 11:36 PM**

_Hey. Not dead. Have you heard from Hunk? He’s not picking up and I’m_

 

Lance yanked his front door open and his phone went clattering to the hardwood as a harsh knock to his head sent him stumbling back into his entryway with a yelp of surprise. He slapped a hand to his forehead, the first thing out of his mouth being, "Hunk?" and it wasn't until he was coherent enough to look up did he realize, that wasn’t Hunk.

That was a badge.

“Seattle Police,” the metal says. Its voice is deep and holds an edge of something Lance would classify as brewing excitement, but the situation reads wrong because why would he be-

The shiny emblem of identification disappeared under a thin square of leather with a snap. It retreated, and the distance unveiled a dark set of eyes that pinned Lance where he stood and his brain flagging in remembrance. Remembrance but nothing else.

“Are you Lance McClain?” Police Badge asked.

And Police Badge is _tall_. Intimidatingly so. Lance raked his eyes up the bulky physique and tried to pinpoint the facial hair in his muddled memory not at all helped by his recent concussion. But the image smears crooked and he wants to _scream_  because it was right on the tip of his tongue. The gruff voice, the clean pressed black dress shirt. 

Lance frowned as his vulnerability made itself known and he edged a hand along the door frame, just in case. He cleared his throat, “Can I know who’s asking?” and Police Badge eyed the movement of his defense with a deadly smile.

It’s a bad start to a long night.

His hackles rise.

Lance moved to slam the door shut and felt his air catch in his throat when the wood rattled, but didn't click closed. A polished boot, wedged between the frame, shoved the door back into Lance's shoulder and stunned him enough for the man to take a generous step inside and look down at him with a smile too tight to be genuine.

He laughed, "Sorry, sorry. I should've made myself clearer the first time," and Lance winced as a meaty hand came down on his bruised shoulder, clamped deep into muscle, and sent his nerves twitching in agony. "My name's Detective Sendak,” he continued.

"I’m gonna need you to come down to the station with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> There are a lot of moving pieces in this chapter that I think are really vital to the story. Not only do we see more of Lance's struggles, but there's screaming potential in the way both Keith and Shiro handle them. It's not ideal for Lance, considering he's trying to tear their empire down, but it's a first he's not yet had the chance to experience.  
> Keith was sort of lost in the competition last chapter so I really wanted to give him some stand-alone time with Lance and Shiro where he's sort of top dog. I also wanted to further show how Keith and Shiro are very much in love, they just have trouble showing it, and I was sort of proud of that but moving on!  
> It feels like we've only scratched the surface!  
> But the fun is definitely over now and Lance is getting the rude awakening he needs to keep his priorities straight.  
> Thank you guys for reading! I hope you enjoyed another long chapter!


	17. State of Emergency

“You need me to _what?!_ ”

Lance snapped his head to the side with a grimace, ears ringing something fierce, and he couldn’t help throwing an apprehensive smile over his shoulder in a half-assed attempt to appease the invisible bodies no doubt watching him from beyond the tinted glass. Glass that smiled back, a perfect carbon copy of Lance’s current sheepishness, and prompted him to angle himself away from prying eyes as he cupped a hand over the receiver and tried to muffle the string of curses pouring through.

“ _Arrested_?!” Iverson bellowed. “What the fuck do you _mean_ , you’ve _been_ _arrested_ , McClain! Where the hell are you!?”

Heat, sudden and sweltering, decided now would be the best of all times to spill from the high of his neck and slather his humiliation into the most key of points along his hunched frame. His ears tinge, no doubt burning the top of the scuffed payphone, and the once comforting material of Keith’s loaned maroon hoodie, was now his very own personal travel sized sauna.

Because the last thing Lance had wanted to do on this shitty vanilla sundae of a night was add the finishing cherry that was his _boss_ to the top of his problem pile. _Especially_ given the late hour and current state of his affairs. But Lance had been one—two— _three_ hours into just sitting around, yelling by his lonesome, and they had only just gotten fed up enough to come by and tell him he could make a phone call.

“ _One_. You get one phone call,” Sendak had clarified with a forceful jab to his spine. “So don’t waste it.”

Next thing Lance knew, he was being hauled by the scruff of his sweatshirt, much like he’d been back at his apartment, and getting tossed into a small white room with a single outdated payphone. The crummy kind you see in classic films or on a set at Universal Studios; maybe in unnecessary places throughout New York. And the only upside to it, really, is the fact that he doesn’t need a quarter to get it working.

The downside? Also that he doesn’t need a quarter to get it working.

Meaning Iverson was just a free phone call away.

Fuckin’ peachy.

Lance knelt down in the far corner of the room, his shoulders creating some semblance of a barrier as he purposefully ducked his head down and softened the delivery of his voice. He was almost positive the line was being recorded as it was, but that didn't detract from his anxious need to keep the eyes beyond the glass from seeing the creeping edge of panic overcoming his earlier disinterest.

“I’m downtown,” Lance finally admitted. “The small station on Couch with the dog statue? You know the one.”

Iverson groaned at the reminder. “And for _what_ exactly, McClain? You’re not there on a fucking field-trip, are you? So talk.”

And Lance would love to. He wanted nothing more than to be able to sit down, make sense of all this, and relay it to his boss in a way that made it so he understood all the quirks and stipulations of his situation.

But he can’t. 

Because it wasn’t like Lance had been escorted away like some celebrity, politely helped into a reclining chair, and given a fresh cup of coffee for the inconvenience as they provided him a slideshow presentation on why he was brought in, no. Sendak had shown up like The Ghost of Shit Yet-to-Come, tossed him straight into an interrogation room with an offensive overhead light, and gave him a party favor of too tight handcuffs good for one restraint.

He had no idea what the motivation was. No idea how long they were keeping him for. And no means to even try and figure it out after being so recently concussed and fucked into oblivion. And yeah, Lance was playing it cool. That’s what Lance did. That’s what Lance was _supposed_ to do. But he’d been caught with his pants down; practically ripped from his earlier fantasy where it was just him and Keith and Shiro, and Sendak had yet to even _exist_ in his mind. And Lance had zero recollection of anything he could’ve done to provoke such measures. Yet here he was. Alone. Without a leg to stand on, and without the ability to prepare.

He was—

“ _Lance_.”

And yes, he was. He was Lance, and Lance was so incredibly _fucked_ _._

His lungs have to work overtime to pass the coming heaviness of a watery exhale and he can't help pressing his forehead to the cold walls tattered with chipping paint in hopes of slowing rising flush of panic low beneath his collar. Pieces fleck off, raining down onto the wrist of Keith’s hoodie that doesn’t even reach his own wrists, it’s so short, and had Lance quickly sinking a tooth into the pillow of his lower lip when the reminder made his throat clog.

It still smelled like him. That had to count for something.

Lance brushed the fabric clean and took selfish comfort in the resonating waft of the man that followed; let the tightening of his chest unfurl with Keith’s earlier presence still fresh in his mind and the promise of a date at the forefront of his worries.

“I'm still here, sir,” Lance breathed, voice stronger than it’d been prior.

And Iverson’s own seemed to take on an edge of soft encouragement as the threat of Lance’s panic staved and got him relaxed enough to shuffle about whatever room he was in. There was a grunt, a faint, “Ivy,” that rang gentle and confused, before his boss hushed the voice just as softly and moved around some more.

Lance must’ve woken him.

“Give me the name of whoever it was that made the arrest,” Iverson said briskly.

The sound of a drawer slamming shut followed seconds after and accompanied a faint click and crinkle of paper that sounded distinctly like a fast food receipt.

“How did you know?” Iverson said dryly, and when Lance snickered he rallied him back. “Alright, kid. Focus. You got a name for me?”

Lance struggled with the hood of his sweatshirt for a moment, hoping the cover would further enhance his barricade, before scoffing, “Some asshole named Sendak," and glancing back just to ensure he was still alone. "Last name, Eberle.”

And you could thank the inconsistencies for making that knowledge possible for him to obtain; the lack of homogeneous identities going from badge, to name tag, to the way said detective introduced himself in the beginning. He had used his first name.

When did a detective _ever_ use his first name?

Trick question; they didn’t.

Lance proceeded to rattle of the exact spelling of the man’s surname and patiently waited for the sound of Iverson’s furious scribbling to subside. There was another click, a cascading rush of tapping keys, and then his boss let out a pensive grunt.

“Did he have a warrant?”

“Would I be here if he didn’t?”

Iverson must shift his phone from hand to shoulder because the line hits static. “Just answer the question, McClain.”

Lance dragged the tip of his finger into a crack in the wall and scritched at the peeking cement beneath with a pouting, “He didn’t.”

“Then you shouldn’t be in there,” Iverson spat, then, even more furiously, added, “ _Goddammit_ , Lance.” A chair squeals this time, and Lance tossed another look over his shoulder in instinctive panic as the sound echoed dully behind him. “What have those fucks told you so far?”

Bullshit; complete and utter.

“That I have nothing to worry about. That they’ll tell me what’s going on soon enough.” Lance glanced up at the looming clock above him and snagged the fleshy part of his inner cheek between his molars. “I’m kinda at a loss for what to do here, sir.”

“Which is why I'm here, kid. So think for me.” Iverson snapped his fingers, _pay attention_ , and continued on. “Roll back a couple months, run through your assignments. Did you trespass?”

No.

“Did you assault anyone? And I mean touching, poking, even _spitting_ in someone’s direction, kid. Think about the women you interacted with; their temperament.”

Colleen immediately comes to mind then. The way she first reacted when he had brought up Matt. It wouldn’t be completely far-fetched to believe she had been the one to call the police on him. He _had_ taken her daughter and set her up suspiciously in his apartment. Hell, maybe his landlord had gotten around to calling about that. But Pidge had been at his place for nearly three months now and the teen was adamant that her mother had no reason to worry. That she thought the girl was on some school retreat for those interested in the sciences. Not to mention how Pidge wasn’t even at his place to begin with when he had gotten home. Sure, Sendak could’ve taken her back to Colleen, but that didn’t explain Hunk’s disappearance. Or the vagueness surrounding Lance’s arrest in the first place.

It had to be something else.

Something more recent.

Something...he didn’t necessarily do.

Which—oh. Oh.

“Oh  _shit_.” Lance scrubbed a hand through his hair, pushing back hoodie and curls alike, as he shoved his forehead to the wall and hissed, “Shit, shit, shit,” with a trailing groan.

Iverson panicked, "What?" and all further background noise came to a standstill. "What happened, Lance. Talk to me kid, what's—"

“My end of the week report?” Lance cut in tightly. “The one I handed in at the end of the month. Tell me you read it.”

The clicking on Iverson's end increased suddenly, his fingers scrolling through what was probably an endless line of emails before he grunted on a single click.

“Paragraph?”

Lance squeezed his eyes shut and winced. “Seven, I think. Three sentences down, beginning of the page. You can’t miss it,” he added weakly.

Because Lance knew now. Well, he’d also known _then,_ but now it was all starting to finally make sense. 

Assuming Takashi and Keith would come for him after Pidge had taken those files had been an anticipation Lance had held onto for _weeks_. Every second he spent in their presence was a second spent thinking about the possibility of them knowing what he'd done. So looking back on it now, it was stupid of him to believe their oblivion had become a safety net; his own dirty secret.

He should’ve worried more about the cops that had run after him, about the ones who had _chased_ him, instead of immediately linking the two businessmen to their schemes and coming up with a line of defense for _only_ Shiro and Keith. Lance had successfully created a blind spot that had allowed Sendak to sneak in and catch him off guard.

Rookie mistake.

But Lance wasn't a rookie anymore.

Screw ups like this should've stopped long ago for him.

Iverson’s silence was cut short by a heavy sigh that pressed out from deep within his chest and muffled the connection. It had Lance swallowing thickly in turn because his boss was probably thinking of all the things he could say to berate him, to point out all the things Lance had done wrong during this entire investigation and tell him off the case entirely. But instead of an influx of curses and ridicule, Lance just hears a faint jingle of what sounded like a set of keys, before Iverson said,

“Protection of sources."

Lance blinked in confusion, lips upturned to inquire as the sound of a door slamming shut came down the line and filled his head with even more questions.

So Iverson repeats himself, “Protection of sources,” and leads on with “Confidentiality. Private personnel. You can’t give away your sources identity no matter the consequences inflicted by law, kid, even more so in a case of it being a minor which, lucky for us, _is_ the case. Freshman year curriculum, McClain. Don't tell me you never made it that far.”

"So what?" Lance said, dodging the insult and searching the ground. "We play code of ethics and hope they back down? Sir, that doesn’t—"  

"We play code of ethics because the code of ethics was put in place for situations _like_ this _,_  Lance. But until I can get there to do so, you keep your mouth shut.” Iverson fumbled with his earlier jingling, his mutters muffled by a distance, before his voice snapped back, riled as ever. “You understand me, McClain? They wanna fucking start something, then I’ll damn sure finish it. No warrant, no goddamn explanation.” He cursed low and shifted the phone again. “They’ll be lucky to have a job once I’m through with them, those _fucks._  You stay silent until I get there, you hear me? Stay. Silent.”

Lance choked down the heaviness in his throat, the sound of a familiar buzzer signaling the end of his call time, and he managed a quiet, but stern, “Yes, sir,” before two gloved fingers pressed down on the tongue of the hook switch and ended the call.

“Just hang in there, kid...”

 

. . .

 

It was usually around this time that Lance would utilize the above double-spaced periods to insert a witty life-lesson, a comical one-liner, or maybe even a personal experience that would lead us into the coming commentary that was sure to have you on the edge of your seat. He’d go on to rant for a few minutes, feeding you useless information that you didn’t necessarily _need_ at the moment, but would most definitely _want_ as his story began to reveal it’s purposefully hidden content and strategically placed foreshadowing.

And by the end of it, Lance would insert a short snippet of vulnerability so that the readers skimming through his work would miss the subtle layer of spurious intent that had a tendency to slip through the cracks and crevasses of his writing when he wasn’t being diligent.

This all sounding familiar?

Because it should. He practically _just_ did it.

Only, instead of life lessons and comical one-liners, Lance was using this curtain call to address the glaringly obvious elephant in the room.

And by elephant, he meant-

“ _You_.. _._ ” Lance cranked his neck side to side, the harsh movement eliciting a gruesome pop, before tossing his head forward and moaning his grief into the empty space above his crotch. “You have got to be the _driest_ officer I have ever had the privilege of being supervised by. Seriously. It’s a wonder you haven’t been promoted. I’ve never seen a man with such perfected resting bitch—”

" ** _Ah-hem_**."

Lance frowned. “Face...”

The metal around his wrists clanged quietly as he shifted and peeked an eye open to seek out the grated scolding, the only sound this guy had made so far, that was nestled deep in the far corner of the room.

The _interrogation room,_  mind you, that he’d been all but dragged to after being re-cuffed and hauled away from the telephone droning it’s mournful passing. It was small, it was poorly lit, and the company was at _most,_  three out of ten.

Lance rolled his shoulders in a futile attempt to shake the pins and needles from his painfully numb arms. They had been left dangling around the back of his chair, courtesy of Sendak, and no amount of stretching was giving him the relief he needed to stave off the burning strain of his muscles tightly bound behind his back.

It’s molten lava is what it is, and unnecessarily so.

Not that his babysitter of a cop cared.

There’s a degree of open amusement trickling from the man as he watched Lance continue to struggle in his effort to situate his arms into a comfortable position. He grunted, twisting his elbow until the bones ground awkwardly against one another, and eventually let his arms go slack with a dejected huff.

“This is bullshit,” Lance muttered.

He looked up just in time to catch the suppression of a smirk, too; the remnants of a silent laugh. And he’d feel inclined to flip the other off, if it weren't for the cuffs doing a marvelous job at restraining him from doing so, just as they should. Not to mention how they were digging bruises into his skin and cutting off all circulation to his fingertips.

Lance rattled the handcuffs to make a statement and commented, “Kinky,” with a glance the officers way.

The officer, who holds his own for the most part, moving only to hook his thumbs down into the weight of his belt and clear his throat a few times; a sorry attempt at fending off any color that might light up his cheeks. And he uses a great deal of effort to keep his eyes downcast, to keep them trained, but they flicker, unable to hold their fixation when Lance moved about suddenly and shifted so he was leaning on his thigh rather than his ass.

Now that he had his attention...

Lance whistled, “So~” and aimed his conversation towards the far wall in a show of disinterest. “Is this how you boys roll in here?” He asked. “Cuffs first, dinner later?”

Ah!

That was a smile! That was _definitely_ a smile!

Lance donned a sly grin of his own and watched the man’s throat work as he went to clear it again. He observed the rebellious flare of the nostrils, the downfall in his curiosity as he struggled to keep from looking in Lance’s direction best he could. But Lance is patient and he catches the lingering emerald gaze with a suggestive jump of his brows when the man holds a split second of contact.

 _See something you like,_ he leered.

And the officer flinched, probably cursing himself inwardly, and rushed to school his expression into something cold and unreadable before flashing a pointed look of authority.

 _You better watch it,_ it says.

Lance heeds the warning for at least a full minute before resuming his earlier search for the chink in the man’s armor. The crack in his facade. Because this guy wasn’t here to play bad cop with him. If anything, he probably just happened to be the nearest sucker for Sendak to see and snag so he could order him around.

Lance could work with ignorance.

Ignorance made this guy impressionable.

So Lance gets to work stretching his legs out in front of him and cocking his head to the side to show off the line of his throat in a way he was pretty sure got Keith hot and bothered, though that’s besides the point. He rolled his ankles back and forth, lips quirked in a friendly smile, and hoped and prayed to the heavens above that Allura would never find out about this half-assed mimicry, lest she try and murder him.

Though it had succeeded in getting this guys attention, it was a far-cry from his usual copy of flattery. A joke compared to Allura’s effortless execution. Now wasn’t the time to worry about perfection, but Lance still needed good. Good enough to get this guy to _like_ him.

So Lance does what he does best.

He talks.

A punctuated pop of his parting lips is all it takes to have the cop jumping to attention and Lance quickly followed it with a cheeky flash of a smile when he caught the surprise. “Think you can tell me what a good bribe goes for around here, officer?” Lance inspected his shoe laces and quirked a brow. “Money? Job offers?” Wait for the dust to settle, then, “Sex?”

Spit must lodge because his cop hacks; shifting in his polished boots to distract from the sudden blue tinge shadowing his face as he heaved. He didn’t look to be entirely uncomfortable, but Lance was definitely pushing his buttons; hitting all the right places that would bring his stoic walls crashing down so that maybe then, Lance would have a clear idea as to why he had been brought here. So that maybe then, Lance would have a leg to stand on and avoid having to go into this blind.

He needed leverage, a little insight, _anything_ , so that when Sendak walked through those doors again, he wouldn’t have to cower with his tail between his legs.

Lance let a sound of surprise trickle out past his lips when the man's gaze flashed on the guess. “Is it sex?” He gasped in disbelief. “Because if it is, you’re already one step ahead of the game with these handcuffs and I’d be more than willing to show you a good time if it meant getting out of here early. What do you say?”

“Do you have an off switch?”

Lance paused.

_So he speaks._

And there’s a hint of amusement under all that annoyance that would be hard to find if Lance didn’t know what to look for. It’s not a lot either, but it’s enough to have him leaning into the back of his chair and batting his lashes up at his cop for dramatic effect. “No, but you’re more than welcome to come over here and find my _on switch_ , officer.”

_There it is._

Whatever big, bad front they’d told this guy to keep up bleeds into a soft snort of humor as he finally met Lance head on and looked at him; held the eye contact and everything.

He swiped a thumb under his nose and cocked his head to the left, as if he couldn’t help trying to figure Lance out when he was right there in front of him, and smiled despite the warnings he must've received prior. “You’re quite the shameless flirt, aren’t you?” He asked.

And Lance shrugged, thinking, only when he needed to be, but that wasn't something this guy needed to know, so he settled for pulling his leg up and balancing his heel on the edge of the chair to press his cheek to his knee with a pout.

“Do you not like that?”

“Oh no, I do.” The officer nodded insistently. “Believe it or not, my wife _loves_ when I come home after a long night of over time with a good story to tell. She’ll get a kick outta you, believe me.”

_Ah._

The classic _whomp_ , _whomp_ , _whomp_ , rattled dryly against Lance's skull and had him deflating in his seat with a dejected _tsk_ as the words gained traction in his head.

So much for seducing the man.

Dammit.

Officer Golden-boy let out a soft chuckle in response to his defeat, and whined a playful, “What? You’re given up on me already?" when Lance refused to look at him. "You had such resolve!” He wailed.

Lance rolled his eyes at his sarcasm, “Yeah well,” and chose to hide his fluster by staring at the table. “I may be a flirt, but at least I'm not a homewrecker.”

“That's very noble of you,” the cop commended.

“Don’t patronize me.”

The clock resting high on the far wall danced its movement, the long arm going from the dark two, to the far three in just a matter of seconds— _ha._  And Lance realized, grimly, that it had officially been over thirty hours since he’d last spoken to Hunk. Which meant it had been four hours since he’d been thrown into this hellhole without so much as a snack, and four-and-a- _half_ hours since he’d said goodbye to Takashi and Keith.

His silence would worry them, but it wasn’t like he could do anything about it.

Sendak hadn't given Lance the opportunity to reach down and grab at where his phone had gone flying across the floor, let alone allow him the chance to go back and make sure his door had locked properly. For all he knew, his house was getting ransacked, his shit stolen, possibly even raided for evidence. All for something Lance had yet to be informed of because the most they had given him upon his arrival was a sit down and shut up sort of welcome before they locked him in this tiny room with officer—

“Regris.”

Lance raised his head at the abrupt introduction and flinched at the officers sudden nearness. The man shrugged in turn, the weight of his gear scuffing loud against his uniform, and he glanced at the far wall in silent contemplation before humming dismissively and looking back down.

“You can call me Regris,” he repeated.

Lance raised an eyebrow, wondering why this guy was instigating conversation when he— _Regris—_ let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Oh, _c’mon_ ,” Regris tutted. “After all that flirting? There’s no way we’re not past first base now, right?”

Lance flailed, “I don’t know how these things work, man!”

It was obvious from the way Regris had acted in the beginning that his orders were to stand quietly, watch the suspect, and keep his mouth shut. Same as they’d told Lance. But here this man was, doing everything they’d told him _not_ to do, and even going as far as to be the next one to start idle chit-chat with someone they considered a _flight risk._

Lance had every right to be genuinely dumbfounded. Regris wasn't supposed to help him so _easily_. He was supposed to fight, give Lance a hard time. Make him work for it like everything else Lance had had to work for up until this point.

But Regris must not care about the timeline Lance had prepared in his mind because he rolled a hand about in slow encouragement, drawling, “This is the part where you say, _‘hi, my name is’_...” and inclined his head patiently so Lance would take the hint.

“Oh,” Lance said dumbly. “I’m—I'm Lance. Lance McClain?”

Regris smiled, but didn’t extend a hand. “You know what you’re here for, Lance McClain?”

No. And as Lance twiddled his fingers, returning the offered smile with a sheepish one of his own, Regris seemed to gather, “I was actually hoping you would be able to tell me that,” before Lance had to admit it aloud.

The man swiped a thumb along the flat of his chin, a thoughtful hum vibrating from the depths of his chest as he pressed a hip to the corner of the table and muttered something unintelligible.

“They _really_ didn’t tell you anything?”  

And Lance had shaken his head for what felt like the millionth time because why the hell would he be asking if they did?

"Point," Regris nodded, coming to the same obvious consensus, before pushing off the table to fiddle with the clasp of his radio. He muttered something to dispatch, a negation of sorts that was far too fast for Lance to pick up on, and moved to step behind him so he could gentle Lance’s sore wrists into his hands.

“Tell you what,” Regris started, “I’ll take you up on your offer.”

And when Lance squeaked, “ _Really_?!” Regris rolled his eyes loud enough to hear and forced Lance’s head forward to hide his creeping flush.

“Not _that_ ,” he hissed. “I’m talking about getting you out of here earlier.”

“Just without the sex.”

A whispered, ‘god, give me strength’, spilled from between Regris's lips before the cuffs came free and the man stepped back to give them some space. “Look,” he began, spinning Lance by the shoulder so he could lean down and level with him. “It’s not my place to get involved, but...let me see what I can do about getting clearance for your release. In the meantime, all you have to do is promise me you’ll raise hell with Sendak once I leave. Deal?”

Regris coaxed Lance’s arms in front of him, re-locking the cuffs loose this time, and even going as far as to help Lance ease the biting sting of his aggravated skin with gentle rubs of his thumbs. _Sorry,_  the touch says.

Lance just bats the apology away with a grateful hum. “Isn’t he your boss?” he asked distantly. He had the mind to throw the man a questioning look before wincing at the next brush of skin and feeling overwhelming relief that that was only the worst of it. His movements had only served to elevate the constricting pressure locked around his wrists, and now that he could see the lasting damage, he wondered how he would’ve lasted another hour.

“It’s a long story,” Regris shrugged; dismissive. “Trust me.”

Lance gave a skeptical look. "I think I have the time," he countered.  

And for a moment, he did.

The door behind them suddenly buzzed, a violent sound that had them both tensing, if only slightly, before Regris straightened and took a generous step away to resume his earlier position.

“Maybe next time,” he whispered.

Lance swallowed around the dryness of his tongue and eyed the door with his hackles raised in anticipation. The tops of a hairy hand had slipped in to clamp around the knob, the teasing edge of a broad shoulder making itself known, and Lance waited with minimal oxygen intake as a familiar hulking body backed itself into the room and paused. There was a bark of an order directed somewhere in the hallway, a scatter of feet soon after, and then the body finally, _finally,_  turned the intensity of it's focus onto the only occupant in the lone chair.

Sendak grinned.

Lance suppressed a shudder.

And the man released his apprehensive gaze in favor of singling out where Regris was lurking against the wall.

“Who the hell are you?” Sendak called.  

Regris jolted, his gear making a horrid clatter of sound as he pointed a weak finger to the bottom of his chin and stuttered, “M-Me, sir?” And when Sendak nodded, he floundered. “Oh...uh. Hill. I’m Officer Hill, sir.”

“What the hell are you doing in here, Hill?”

Regris flushed. “Y—You asked me to. To—To—”

“To what?” Sendak snapped the file he had in hand closed and wagged his fingers upward. “Speak up, Hill.”

“You asked me to watch him, sir. Before you left on break? You said you wanted to let him stew for a bit while you got lunch but you didn’t want to risk him sweet talking his way— _er._ ”

A blur of panic and rage had blended together in Sendak’s expression and Regris was right to trail off as the larger man stalked forward and palmed the back of his shoulder blade roughly. He laughed something forced, eyes boring into Regris’s own as he hissed, “I got it now, thank you,” and bullied him towards the exit.

It’s a reassurance of their earlier promise, Lance realized. Regris had given him his first set of ammo to gauge just how badly Sendak had had it out for him and he did it on a play of obliviousness. On his newbie status.

It's an ingenious move. Truly remarkable.

Regris let himself be herded towards the door spewing carefully constructed apologies and even stopped in the doorway to grab at Sendak’s arm with a desperate sound. “I'm so sorry, sir,” he gasped. “I didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret. If I had known, I never would’ve— _o-ow._ Sir, your hand is—”

Sendak shoved at Regris and didn't have the patience or the consideration to watch as the man went stumbling, before he was rearing back to slam the door closed with a resonating _thud_. He glared out the window with a heaving inhale, and Lance felt a shiver zip down his spine as the silence settled thick between them and laid itself like a tripwire.

They were alone now. But Lance was no longer entirely defenseless.

 _Not anymore_.

Lance titled his chin up slightly when Sendak turned from the door, his classic strained smile stretching his lips into a ghastly imitation of friendliness as he adjusted his hold on a stale cup of coffee and stalked close. He set the paper cup down carelessly, let its contents spill over the edges in dark rivets that forced Lance to shift back in order to avoid the waterfalling droplets, and Lance felt his throat dry as he tried his best not to jump when the opposing chair scraped loudly against the floor and allowed for Sendak to pile down into it with his knees spread and his fingers laced loosely.

It’s a countdown.

The man is ticking time bomb.

And Lance is fully prepared to swallow any and all comments that may threaten his position, just like Iverson advised him to, when Sendak hits him with, “I want to start off by apologizing for the wait. I’m sure you’ve been anxious wondering why we brought you in.”

Catch that _we_ there? As if Sendak _hadn’t_ been the one to physically remove Lance from his hallway? It’s a shit way to twist a story, one Lance doesn’t fall for because he’s not an average civilian, and Sendak must see the way it falls flat. The way his blue eyes stay cold.

Lance did this kind of stuff in his _sleep_ , and Sendak would find that out soon enough.

A heavy silence precedes the larger man's earlier intro, like he's waiting for Lance to manifest his words into the physical space between them, but when they don’t, he lets out a deep sigh and tries to level with him.

“Mr. McClain, are you aware that you were reported missing almost eleven hours ago by a man claiming to be your cousin?" Sendak slid a document his way, but didn't wait for Lance to snap out of his shock before continuing. "He came in this morning asking that I send out a patrol car to look for you in the general area. Said you never came home from an interview last—"

"Wait, wait, wait _._ " Lance flushed at his outburst, pissed he couldn't refrain, but this had to be some sort of sick joke. A ploy to get him talking. Because who in the hell would—

"Hunk Garrett?" Lance gaped at the interjection and Sendak ignored him in favor of flipping through the first few pages of his small notebook and stopping. "Does a Hunk Garrett ring any bells?"

Lance blinked; let it sink in.

Because Hunk? As in, _his_ , Hunk? As in his intelligent, lovable, and unhealthily paranoid _brother_ who had a tendency to think the worst and immediately assume a murder was at play before getting his facts straight, good  _God._ It was _Hunk!?_

Lance pressed a finger to his temple and squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying and failing to channel as much inner peace and self-control as he could manage without the stress showing on his face.

“That," Lance shook his head in defeat. "That is my editor. My best friend, actually.”

A dead man once he got out of here.

Sendak hummed, fixing the chaos of his notepad absentmindedly with a flippant, “Yes, well,” as he took a moment to remember how to be sympathetic. “Your friend made it sound as though there was a chance you were in danger. Is there any reason why he would’ve thought that?”

Lance cut the man's current train of thought off with a rapid shake of his head, fingers splayed to reason and eyes sparking. “I was doing an interview for this article I’m writing,” he waved, lip quirked down into a thin frown. “I'm usually on time with these sorts of things but I got held up. Is all this really necessary?"

"Is all what necessary?" Sendak asked.

And Lance flailed his hands across the room, gestured to the chair, to the door, threw his cuffed _hands_ flat on the table to make a very obvious point. " _This_ ," Lance said in exasperation. "I don't remember this being anywhere near standard protocol. I was only reported missing, right?" And when Sendak said nothing, Lance frowned deeper. " _Right_ , sir?"

The smile Sendak goes for doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll get to that in a little bit," he dodged. "Until then, could you start by helping me understand the reasoning behind your friend’s actions? He alluded to the possibility of you being hurt at the hands of someone else. Someone you were meeting with."

Ew.

Something about that question rubs Lance the wrong way, Sendak's earlier response, even more so. It's a question, for one, that could get him into trouble, trouble if he didn't word it in a way that couldn’t be twisted. And he can hear Iverson in the back of his mind, his earlier instructions to keep his mouth shut a blaring echo as he swallowed thickly and tried to hold eye contact.

_Keep your mouth shut, kid._

Lance cracked. “We’ve seen a rise in work related homicides this past year.” He rolled a wrist about despite the restriction and hoped his not following orders would pay off in keeping the worry off of him. Make it a generalization; nothing specific. “We go missing, we get hurt. People's attitudes can change at the drop of a hat, y'know. It comes with the career. Written in the fine ink.” Lance shrugged.

But Sendak doesn't break. “Your friend said he had reason to believe _you,_ specifically, were in danger when he spoke with us. I just don’t understand why your editor, who would’ve known who you were meeting with, correct?”

Lance grimaced, a strained, “You are,” hissing between his clenched teeth as Sendak nodded smugly.

“Why you not coming back home on time was an immediate red flag for him. He made it sound like the people you were meeting were a threat. You get what I’m saying?”

Lance stayed silent this time around but Sendak didn't seem deterred in the slightest. He fiddled about like he was simply concerned, like the good samaritan he was just trying to get down to the bottom of things so he could _help_ Lance. So he could _understand_ him.

“Which is why I’m just wondering who it was you met with that was just suspicious enough, that your friend felt justified contacting the police the second you didn't show up after, what, only a couple of hours? You’re seeing why I’m curious, aren’t you?”

And Lance could see why alright. It just didn't make any fucking sense.

Sendak had been tiptoeing around the real questions he wanted to ask, was tiptoeing still, in a way that would slow the eventual rise of what it was he actually wanted to say. He was building up. He was trying to get Lance to talk about the bigger things so he could back him into a corner and pry the smaller information out of him by force.

Lance wasn’t here because Hunk had reported him missing. Sure, that had to be the trigger, but at age twenty-one and less than forty-eight hours of silence on his part, it was downright ludicrous to believe Sendak had honestly brought him in out of concern.

They rarely got off their asses to look for teenagers, let alone a grown ass adult.

Which made it a cover. A shitty cover that Lance unveils with only a tightening in his chest to show for it as his voice came out dismissive and strong. "Guess you’ll just have to read the article when it comes out if you want that information, sir.”

_My lips are sealed, bastard._

Sendak fell quiet, his smile wilting at the corners, and Lance is positive he sees a glint if hatred there before he let out a laugh; forced and dry. “My colleagues weren’t kidding,” he said tightly. “You’re quite the jokester, aren’t you?”

Flirt. Jokester.

Everything under the sun except an idiot. Which was debatable yes, but not in this case.

Lance flashed Sendak an impromptu beam of a smile, one the man tried to return, but failed to in the shake of his uncertain surprise. “Oh, you liked that?” Lance chirped. “Wait 'till you hear this next one.” Lance hooked his feet around the legs of his chair and scooted close so Sendak could read his fucking lips if he had to. He hunched his shoulders forward in giddy anticipation, laughed easily under Sendak’s show of nerves, and said, “What did the detective say when the judge asked why he held an innocent man under false pretenses?”

Anyone? Anyone?

Sendak must know because his smile folds in on itself and Lance feels his own sour in response as he glared at the man and leaned in closer.

“Cut the bullshit, sir. I’m not stupid.”

All faux intent to be cordial shatters.

Sendak’s lips slowly curled into a condescending smirk as he shifted back in his chair, and fixed his eyes on the line of Lance’s throat quietly. The air in the room held a tense valence that Lance was having trouble shaking as Sendak stared at him as though he were trying to weigh his options. As if he were wondering how believable it would be if he bashed Lance's head into the table and screamed, 'stop resisting' for a full minute.

Not likely, Lance thinks, and Sendak must realize the same because his shoulders relax and he eases out of his start position to lurch upright.

“You’re funny,” Sendak chuckled. “That’s _really_ funny, McClain.” A nail taps out a rhythm into the metal table. “Tell me something, Lance. If you’re a journalist, that means you’re probably out running errands, going to meetings, and doing tedious investigations into whoever it is that you want to harass next for a lousy paycheck. Right?”

Lance eyed the placement of Sendak’s moving hands and examined the clenched work of his jaw; the way his words came out pinched through the clench of his teeth. He’s pissed, but he's also smart enough to know that patience will get him further than intimidation.

Which is why Lance took a moment to clear the wariness from of his throat and flash a flat expression Sendak’s way to show he was unimpressed. “Seems like you already know, don’t you?” He raised a shoulder. “Congratulations on accurately describing my day to day. So if that’s all, and you’re done wasting my time now—” When Lance moved to stand up out of his chair, that same paw of a hand slammed flat against his shoulder and crushed him back down into his seat with a growled, “ ** _Sit_**.”

Strong enough that his bones ache, threatening enough that his lungs lock at the havoc the tone wrecks and he tries not to cower beneath the man’s animalistic glare even though the one thing he wanted to do in that moment was run.

But like a switch being turned off, the look is gone, and Sendak appears reasonably human once again.

“Now.” Sendak smoothed back the disarray of his dark locks and reached down to pull out a thin file with what looked to contain no more than three pieces of paper. “The reason I ask you these things, Lance, is because I know you’re a busy guy. I wouldn’t expect you to remember every single person and every little place you’ve been to in the last few months because I know it can get overwhelming. So even if _your_ memory might be bad,” Sendak pushed a fairly grainy photo his way and flashed a wolfish grin. “Cameras make up for it with their own. You wanna tell me what that looks like to you.”

Lance glanced down at the image with only a slight grimace to show for it; one so minuscule, he’s not even sure Sendak is strong enough to catch it. And he bites down on any surprised huffs that threaten to slip out and catches any glimpse of recognition or panic that desperately want to make themselves known in his expression.

He keeps calm; stoic. Unbothered, even as he raised the picture up against the lighting and cocked his head with a thoughtful sound.

“It looks like a shitty picture,” Lance finally announced, and he sent Sendak a phony look of concern with it before pushing the picture back towards the man's chest and watching his expression quiver at the edges. “You should really upgrade that flip phone, sir. This is just sad.”

The table rattled.

“You’re saying that the jacket here doesn’t look familiar? That the location and second individual are completely alien to you?” Sendak sounds slightly desperate, but the look of excitement in his gaze isn’t consistent.

“Are you implying that the picture here is of me?” Lance questioned back loosely.

And Sendak stabbed a finger right into the center of the lithe outline of what was clearly Lance’s body being pulled along by a well hidden Pidge. “I’m _asking_ you, if the person in this photo is you.”

_Keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth—_

“That isn’t me.”

Lance, once again, pushed the corner of the picture back towards Sendak’s chest pointedly, and watched the man stare at him in obvious disbelief. He scoffed, words failing him all the sudden, as he shook his head and looked back up at Lance with a tinge of annoyance.

Not anger.

A sort of...impatience.

“You’re saying those aren’t your pants. Those aren’t your shoes. That isn’t your hair.”

Lance shrugged, knowing the picture was far too low in resolution to be completely accurate. “That’s a popular shoe, sir. Ever heard of buy-one-get-one?”

“You don’t recognize the female?”

Lance squinted down at the photo, feigning concentration, before making a startled sound in the back of his throat, “Is that what that is?” and leaning back in his chair with a pout to his lips that screamed, _I dunno man_. “Besides,” he waved flippantly. “The date that was taken was the day I was in a meeting with my boss. And you can confirm that with him once he gets here, believe me.”

He'd be _more_ than willing to give you an alibi.

So it’s checkmate.

It _should_ be checkmate.

But Sendak just looked between the two, Lance and the picture, the picture and Lance, almost like he was trying to envision his face in the pixelated camera footage before snickering.

“Sorry,” he gushed suddenly. “It’s just, I really thought you would’ve been honest with me. Especially after this.” Sendak waved the picture in front of Lance’s nose, and from his other hand, produced another. “Oh? I wonder how I got my hands on that.”

Panic.

Lance stared at the slightly blurry image of him and Pidge running past the kiosk, a quick snapshot that had gotten the majority of his face, of his outfit, but covered most of Pidge, much to his overwhelming relief.

Relief that doesn’t last, but at the very least, he could still protect Pidge.

“Now would you look at that. You sure you don’t recognize the shoes anymore? They’re pretty clear, aren’t they? Even though you were running like hell from my officers.”

Lance struggled to swallow around he weight of his tongue, a weak, “I need to speak to a—” cut of by Sendak’s sympathetic click of tongue.

“Oh, it’s too late for that,” Sendak cooed sweetly. “I have everything I need here to put you away on a _number_ of felonies. I’m talking serious prison time for your actions against my department, Lance. This is scary stuff.” He pushed the file aside, hand outstretched and finger pressing gently under Lance’s chin as he angled his face up to meet his eye. “Unless...”

Lance flicked his gaze away from the damning photo and glared at Sendak. “What?” he hissed.

The larger man shrugged leisurely, posture falling relaxed in his ever growing success as he traced his thumb under Lance’s jaw and hummed. “Unless you’re willing to work with me,” he offered. “Unless you’re willing to tell me what you did with the file and where I can find the girl.”

_Katie?_

“It’d be as simple as testifying,” Sendak reassured lightly. “I watched the footage, I know you weren’t a co-conspirator. The girl left the department long before you came into the picture, I can _use_ that. I’d let the jury see you as confused, uneasy; just couldn’t pass up helping a friend in need after she just lost her brother, could you Lance?”

Wait.

“Then you could go home, everything would be forgiven, and all you’d have to do is tell me who you gave that file to. This doesn’t have to be hard, Lance. This doesn’t have to get _messy_.”

But it did.

Too little too late does Lance realize just how bad of a situation he’s ended up in. After all this time, hearing about Pidge’s sketchy investigator and his continuous hindering of the girls efforts to finger her brother. Lance would blame the concussion, but the truth is, he didn’t even _think_ about it. Not when the man had hit him with the missing persons report so quickly in the game.

It’s another fuck up to put down in the books. One so royal, he’s not sure he can dig his way out.

So take this moment of weakness to think back a couple of chapters, back to Pidge and the file and the Ihop—thank god it stayed the same—on 126th. Back to the chase and the assault and the interview that Lance had done that had gone to absolute shit in just a matter of _minutes._

What had his concern been then? What had Lance agonized about almost every time he had to interact with Takashi and Keith whether it be on their turf or his?

It was the every growing possibility that the two would be informed of the recent theft and that the cops that had chased Pidge and him would be able to give them a vague enough description of his identity, that it would allow for the businessmen to put two and two together without thought.

Lance had gotten comfortable in their ignorance, of course; the event pushed to the recesses of his mind as Shiro and Keith acted as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

But Lance was still under the assumption that the two ends were connected somehow, that Pidge’s shitty detective, and the cops chasing them, were the one's Kogane had hired to help keep Matt's disappearance a secret. Hell, the file was evidence enough for that hypothesis.

But _this_. _Sendak._

If this man were really the detective Keith had hired as a private investigator for this case, it was becoming glaringly obvious that he had no idea who Keith was to _begin_ with. That or Keith wasn’t even in the picture. Because why else would he try to needle Takashi and Keith’s name out of him in the beginning? Why not tell Lance the two had reported the theft and fingered him as the suspect if that was what he were in here for to begin with?

It was because Sendak thought Lance had given them, his _sources,_ as inTakashi and Keith _,_ the file.

Because _Sendak,_ wasn’t _working_ for them _._

It’s another lightbulb.

One that had Lance's pulse jumping as the pieces started clicking, his mind started reeling, and things got more and more complicated.

Sendak had done a good job covering his tracks with his best friends actions, but Lance could see now that there had always been an ulterior motive. False pretenses, just like Iverson said. Sendak wanted to use him as a pawn to not only get rid of Katie, the only threat to their cover-up, but to expose Shiro and Keith in the process.

Which meant Keith and Shiro were just as at risk as he was in this moment.

Lance dug his nails into the meat of his palms and tried to breathe through the climbing frustration. He had no reason to be worried necessarily, especially considering the unlawful shortcuts Sendak had taken to get to this point, but all of this was on record. He had been physically caught stealing evidence from the department, and shit like that wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

But...

 _But_.

“W-Why don’t you?”

Sendak blinked at him, taken aback by the question, and tilted his head slightly, asking, “What?” as Lance filled out in growing confidence and gained some traction.

“Why don’t you then?” Lance repeated. “You have everything you need to take me to court. To charge me like you said you could. So why don’t you?”

When something didn’t make sense, it was almost always because it _shouldn’t._  Sendak had no reason to ask Lance for his help. He could easily present the evidence he had and get the judges approval with or without him testifying against Katie. The law _worked_ in Sendak’s favor in this case.

Unfortunately, it did in Lance’s case as well.

“You had no probable cause. You didn’t even have a warrant to cover up that mistake.”

Sendak growled, “Shut up.”

Lance ignored him. “You arrested me under false pretenses and I am under no obligation to reveal my sources information to you no matter how hard you push for it. You have nothing to threaten me with,” Lance spat in disgust.

Sendak snarled, shoved the table into Lance’s chest and slammed forward with the picture creased within his grasp. “ _This,_ ” he raged. “ _This_ is cause enough to put you away for years, McClain!”

“So why don’t you,” Lance countered, wincing through the dull throb in his sternum. “Why don’t you, Sendak,” he asked again.

It had to click eventually. There were too many odds Lance had stacked against the man. Yes, he had assisted Pidge in stealing those files, but that is exactly where Sendak fell short.

Why, you ask?

“Because we’re missing something that is highly case sensitive and should not be revealed to the public.” Sendak said this slowly, a reluctant admission pulled tight between his bared teeth as he glowered where he sat. 

Something warm unfurled in Lance’s chest, a high of relief and adrenaline as his pulse found it’s rhythm and stayed steady in its support.

“Because you are missing something that would bury you in the _ground_ if it got out,” Lance agreed. And there’s fear there. Anger, but a hint of fear in Sendak’s gaze as Lance leaned back in his seat and looked about the room in smug disinterest.

He was done here.

“So, you finished playing evil-villian for the day or would you like me to tell you off some more?”

Sendak jolted from his revere, his eyes glinting in the light, and he flashed a sinister line of teeth as he stared him down. “I would watch the way you talk to me, McClain,” he rumbled. “I can still keep your ass in here for as long as I fucking please. You understand me? I only need an excuse.”

“One we don’t actually have, sir.”

Lance snapped his head up in the direction of the open doorway and gaped at Regris in silent surprise. The man looked equally smug, a quick smile thrown in Lance's direction before it’s warmth bled into something clammy and anxious as he met the brunt of Sendak's turned glare.

He jabbed a thumb. “The judge just gave us the order to terminate interrogation, sir. We can’t keep him any longer. _Especially_ when we don’t have a warrant or even probable cause—”

Sendak shot up suddenly, his chair flying back into the far wall and punching a small hole in the flimsy plaster. His chest heaved in his temper and he glared down at Lance who, unphazed by the show, perked and brightened substantially.

“So, I’m free then?” He asked, grinning ear to ear.

Regris stepped forward, “It would seem so,” and went to reach for his chained wrists with a friendly flash of teeth, only to stumble slightly when Sendak held up a finger. “I can handle my suspects, Hill,” he growled, walking the man back a few steps.

Reluctance was ever present in Regris's eyes, but he handed the key over without struggle and sent an apologetic look Lance’s way when Sendak turned from him.

It’s definitely rougher than it needs to be. Lance's wrists are yanked harder than necessary, nails digging into his blooming bruises, and he bit back a whimper as Sendak tugged him in close and brushed his lips low against his ear. “You have _no_ idea what you’re getting into, Lance,” he murmured darkly. “It’s just like you said. People like you disappear _all the time_.”

The key slipped into the hole and Lance felt the swinging release as the cuffs clicked open and prompted Sendak to haul him to his feet without care. It had Lance fighting against the burrowing fingers and stopping only to meet Sendak’s eye with a breathless scowl.

“Something tells me I’m the exception, though, right?” Lance pinched his eyebrows in challenge and tugged at the grip on his arm helplessly. “Big name in journalism, large friend group. Wouldn’t be very clean, now would it?”

A rumble of a hum vibrates faint against Lance’s side, a long finger creeping up to pull at the neckline of Keith’s hoodie and expose the flushed skin beneath. And Lance felt his cheeks heat in surprise as he smacked the prodding hand away and tried to hold his own.

“That’s what would make it fun,” Sendak purred.

Then he shoved him away, uncaring to see if Regris was there to catch him or not as he turned to collect his files calmly.

Lance was quickly righted in turn, his feet scuffing quietly against the floor, and Regris herded him out in a frenzy to try and get them as far away from the psychotic detective as quickly as they could before he found another reason to make them stay.

“Be safe out there, Lance,” Sendak called. “Sooner or later, you won’t have your boyfriends around to protect you when it matters most. And _that..._ ”

Regris nudged him out into the hallway— _don't listen to him, Lance, don't listen_ —and urged him to keep going as the door took it’s time blocking out Sendak's dark chuckle.

“ _That_ is when things get messy.”

The door clicked shut with a harsh buzz.

Lance turned just in time to catch a passing glimpse of the man’s haunting grin.

And for the first time in a long while, Lance felt the draining effect of true, unadulterated foreboding...

But nice exiting statement, asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again~  
> I’m sorry for the late update but June was disgustingly busy and this chapter was a monster to write with all the dialogue.  
> BUT!!!  
> I am painfully excited for this update. I struggled a lot with it, but there is just so much that is coming together!  
> Sendak is freaking brutal and I really love writing him as a character. Especially going up against Lance because he’s just this smug little shit and it’s hilarious how easy it is for him to get under people’s skin. But I also think this was really the eye opener Lance needed on a number of levels. Sendak has blatantly shown how much of a threat he can be to not only him, but to Pidge as well, and that is something he’s going to have to take into consideration now.  
> We’ve learned a lot about Sendaks influence too! Even if it wasn’t blatantly said, and we also know now that Keith and Shiro have been docked shady points. Which we will get into more next chapter (also, Shiro and Keith will be back yayayayay!!)  
> I’m afraid sometimes that there are places that can get confusing because a lot of this stuff is still information that has yet to be revealed. This is sort of suspense so I have to keep reminding myself it’s okay to be a little vague.  
> But if stuff is not clicking, please please tell me so I can fix it because I tend to get lost in plot and forget some things that have happened. 
> 
> And I could rant for hours but this update was a lot to read, haha, so I just wanted to thank you guys so much for your patience and tell you how much I appreciate it.  
> Y’all are literally the greatest and I promise to get this rolling a bit faster now that it’s summer!


	18. Tragically Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my readers who have a tendency to see my updates at 12 pm, please know that this chapter is around twelve thousand words long. Issa beast. So I would advise you read at a time that WONT effect the amount of sleep you get, but I know you guys are too hardcore for that. So enjoy!

For those of you that had been impressed, and dare Lance say maybe even a little inspired, by his handiwork as a journalist these past seventeen chapters, he would like to take the following paragraphs of this sorry excuse of an introduction to showcase his gratitude by offering some quick tips and tricks that had served him well as a rookie.

This would _also_ be a good time for those of you just joining us, to take some rather diligent notes and ask questions where you have any, since this would be that real life sort of shit that the higher ups expected newbies to learn at the hands of trial and error.

Would the lesson be worthwhile? Probably, but Lance wouldn’t force it.

That wasn’t what he was here to do today.

No, today, after what could only be described as a frustratingly long, and no doubt anticipated update into the depths of his rapidly deteriorating mental state, Lance would be talking about profanity in print.

Ass in articles.

The cocks in content and everything in between.

Be it the most prestigious of four year colleges or that of an affordable two year, it went without saying in almost every standard journalism course that unless the integrity of the article as a whole was at stake, there was no viable reason to include words like ‘fuck’ or ‘bitch’, when the first letter and a few dash marks would get the point across just as easily. Some companies would even suggest editing out the curse word all together. Others, leaning more towards a vague description of the word like, ‘a derogatory slur used commonly against African Americans’, which did a fine job censoring given the stipulations, but did a ‘vulgar exclamation categorized as a slang term used when comparing one to feces’, job at making the article comprehensive.

See what he just did there?

Like everyone starting out, Lance had never been one to go against protocol. He of all people understood the limitations of the first amendment, and if the scale of his news reports tipped from that of hard to soft without the inclusions of a few curse words, then who was he to argue against the foundation of his career.

Right?

 _Wrong_. Lance wasn’t thirty articles deep with only four tolerable ones to show for it because he was a rule breaker. It was because the rules he’d vowed to follow were put into place by those afraid of conflict. Those who couldn’t take the  _criticism_.

And after months and months of trying and failing to live up to the expectations of Allura, Iverson, of  _himself_ , it was with a bitter realization that the people he had idolized up until that point didn’t get where they were by conforming to the majority. They did what they had to do, rules be damned, to fight for the truth and _publish_ that truth without fear of  repercussion.

They were independents.

Lance was now forever the first to argue that the profanity in publication was almost a necessity given the material they were entrusted to cover. Because for anyone that hadn’t noticed yet, people. Weren’t. Getting. Any. Better.

The human race was forever evolving; turning into a more crude version of itself as the years went on. And yes, there were millions out there repulsed by the use of the word ‘cock’ when all they wanted to do was read their PG rated work in the comfort of their own kitchen, but the newer generations, a.k.a the _future_ _readers of their company_ (if kids even read the news anymore), were the ones more comfortable and encouraging of the slang. They identified with it.

And if Lance were to take a wild guess as to what the general age group of those reading his work right now were, then he was confident he’d find an overwhelming bulk to be under the age of fifty.

Fickle things like smut and filth were imperative to creator content because the world was riddled with it. Flooded by it. Choosing to edit out the obscene and the suggestive all for the sake of reader comfortability was anything _but_ a kind service because it did nothing to prepare his audience for the harsh realities of life. It coddled them.

So while everyone gasped and balked at the blatant disregard for censorship in Lance’s graphic recaps of his nightly sexcapades, he, for damn near twenty chapters now, had been actively shaping every single person that so much as laid eyes on his work into something capable of taking a hit. Into something that would harbor the ability to take life in stride, and not bitch and moan over the slightest of inconveniences.

All free of charge.

So, if there was one thing that Lance wanted to further provide his loyal readers with, even though he had already done this much—no need to thank him—it was to pass on the knowledge and understanding that profanity in print, the raunchiness in writing, was what they called a necessary evil.

Meaning, if at any point you thought that Lance would tone down the explicitness of his novel worthy content, he could only hope you were smart enough to turn back now because from here on out, it’s—

Nothing but bile and poorly digested oatmeal. Coming up faster than Lance can stave and spewing in a sickly yellow arch that sprays all down the front of some poor bastards patrol car and douses the front tire in his sick.

He feels Iverson’s hand, strong like Sendak’s, but gentle in it’s clasp, hold steady at his shoulder and push down, down, down.

“Head between your knees, kid. Atta boy.”

Lance’s nose drips, a chunky mixture of snot and other things he’d rather not think about pooling into the divot of his Cupid’s bow, and he gagged; _heaved_ into the scuffed knee of his jeans, convulsing all the while, until his belly quivered it’s defeat and the acid in his throat quenched into something reasonably neutral.

Left him gasping, “ _Gah,_ ” plugged sinuses and all, as he grimaced into the privacy of his wrist with a groan. “That.” He spat at his feet. “Was disgusting.”

Empty silence made its decent into the gap in conversation, gradually filling the uncomfortable space between boss and employee, before Iverson cut through the thickness and crouched down.

He patted at Lance’s shoulder, awkward in his sympathy, and produced a drawn out, “ _Yeah_ ,” that trailed quiet into an offer of what could’ve been a used tissue, but didn’t look dirty enough for Lance to object. “You get it all up?” He asked gruffly. “Or do you have another round in yah’, cuz if you do, right here’s the place to do it.”

“And why’s that?” Lance quirked a brow, letting the action speak for itself, before taking the offered ball of cotton with a grateful nod of ‘thanks’ that Iverson acknowledged with a dismissive grunt. “Is it some sort of final ‘fuck you’?”

Iverson shrugged, “Only if you want it to be,” and when Lance only blinked, his boss directed his attention with a loose twitch of his pointer finger. “I’d take that it already _is_ considering you just gave that asshole a new paint job.”

And would you look at that.

Karma _was_ a bitch.

Iverson clapped him on the back heartily, commending him with a “nice job, McClain,” as he straightened to full height, and motioned Lance to do the same with a quick shake of his hand. “Personally,” he started, “I would’ve gone for the drivers side knowing there’s a handle. But I think you might be onto something with the windshield, kid.” Iverson shook his head and chuckled, “You just might be onto something.”

The praise, although rare coming from Iverson, falls flat to Lance’s ears; overshadowed by a distant ringing and completely overwhelmed by the progressive snorts his boss can’t seem to contain. They grow in wheezing octave, lungs discouraged by years of inconsistent smoke binges, but encouraged by whatever punch-line he’s found in the situation.

And it only seems fair that Lance allow his own laugh of wary success to bleed into that of Iverson’s over the top hacking before his boss was hooking him around his less than enthused shoulders and humming his dying humor into a rattle of a sigh.

He looked pensive, lips flatlined in a thoughtful pout, and Lance felt his shoulder twinge in uncomfortable recollection as Iverson shook him, “C’mon,” and herded him towards his wife's new Kia. “Let's getcha’ home.”

Part of Lance expects Iverson to lose whatever comedic lens had obscured his usual sternness, somewhere between the police station and his poorly secured apartment. Another part of him desperately hopes he doesn’t, but for the most part his boss stays relatively silent, save for a few mindless comments here and there regarding the empty freeways and the new Domino’s that went up on Walker, and it’s really only when Lance tips dangerously to the right does the man turn his head some and notice his pinched look of concentration.

“Talk to me, kid. You got quiet on me.” Iverson looked at him. “What’s wrong?”

Lance frowned hard. Hard enough that his lower lip stretched tight over his clenched teeth, and pushed down into a pout as he stared off at the passing streetlights cutting shapes out of the stars. He sucked in a breath, “It’s nothing, sir,” and felt the lie slide flimsily against his tongue.

It’s a shit attempt. One that wouldn’t get past Iverson even on his worst day, because his boss knocked his knuckles against his outer thigh roughly. Muttered, “Bullshit,” and took his eye off the road long enough to flash Lance a hard look. “Try again, kid. Except this time, don’t lie to me.” He tilted his head forward; repeated himself. “What’s wrong?”

The streetlight ahead of them turned red despite the vacant streets, Lance’s merciless luck at its finest, and Iverson must decide it’s time to experience what it must be like to be a law abiding citizen because he stopped, something Lance knew he never would’ve done, and shifted up on his leg so he could give Lance a serious once over.

The man quirked a brow, _we can sit here all night, McClain,_ and Lance responded by pressing his lips into a stubborn line that wavered dangerously at the corners, and had Iverson frowning just as deep, if not _deeper_.

He grunted, _go on_ , and furthered his resolve by refusing to acknowledge the now green light that buzzed bright overhead and illuminated Lance’s hardened expression ominously.

Only it faltered; his lips twisting sour and complexion shuddering horribly pale as he gagged, then _retched_ , and forfeited eye contact in favor of fumbling against the car door in search of the handle.

Thick fingers flew clumsily at Lance’s seat belt, frantic for that resonating _click_ , and the second the latch released, a punctuated sound accompanying the slacken of his restraints, Lance was there to kick the door open and twist half out of the vehicle to save themselves both from the gush of residual bile that finally managed to work it’s way up.

Iverson cursed, “ _Dammit_ , kid,” and reached back to scrounge about the back seats in search of any fast food napkins his boys might’ve left behind. And he barked, “I thought you said you were done.”

Lance held up a finger in response, _just give me a few moments_ , and rode out the last few waves of strained heat that worked up his throat in the form of pitiful gasps.

“You done?” Iverson called bitterly, and Lance could only manage a weak nod before Iverson was pulling him in by the scruff of his jacket and stretching across to pull the door closed.

“Wipe your mouth,” he ordered, dropping a handful of crumpled napkins into Lance’s lap. “And put your damn head between your knees before you get sick again.”

Lance sniffled, “I won’t.”

And Iverson didn’t wait until he was fully buckled back in before he was peeling through the now red light and glancing up at his rear-view mirror nervously. “Yeah, well. You said that last time and look what happened.”

He threw up again.

“You threw up again.”

Lance rolled his head against the window, finding relief in the cold glass pressed against his skin, and tried to work the sour film out of his mouth just to give himself something to do. Just to keep himself distracted from the building emotion fighting its way up his throat and threatening to spill down the front of his shirt just like his vomit had done.

Except instead of putrid yellows and spotted greens, it would be choked words and dripping tears as he tried not to dissolve into a sobbing mess right before his bosses eyes.

So he settles for a safe, “I’m sorry,” the words coming out thicker and heavier than he wants. And he can feel where they lose momentum on his chest, an ugly reminder of tonight's fuck ups, as the added weight of Iverson’s stare becomes all the more crushing where his lungs can’t measure up.

His boss grunted, “It’s no big deal, kid,” and let his gaze wander to the passing convenience stores. “I can handle a little vomit.”

But Lance shook his head, “ _No,_ ” because that—that wasn’t what he meant. “I mean for everything,” he said; _rectified_.

And Iverson looked at him fully then, watching as Lance’s throat physically _worked_ through the thickness of his apology and had him wincing with the strain. He shook his head, “I’m sorry for not coming to you first. For not... _telling_ you what I did when I did it, I—” Lance swallowed again, eyes pricking at the corners, and his voice caught horribly as he choked, “I just wanted to let you know, that if you’re ready to fire me, I won’t—”

“Lay back.”

Iverson pushed a hand to Lance’s chest, effectively cutting off all further despondency on his part, and ignored Lance’s flustered look of sharp bewilderment to check his literal blind spot to merge and run another red. “You’re getting all worked up over nothing, McClain,” he grumbled airily.

And Lance felt his brain trip up some, lips parted in question because, “You think all of that was _nothing_?”

Tears of misery quickly became tears of confusion as Lance blinked those that had manifested from where they’d gathered in his lashes, and swiped at them furiously when they strayed along his cheeks.

Iverson didn’t care to watch though, nor did he seem to find it worth commenting on as he shrugged carelessly and ignored a passing stop sign. “I think,” he started, “that there isn’t a damn thing they said to you that can’t wait until morning. Preferably _after_ we’ve both gotten some adequate sleep, alright? So stop crying. It’s played out.”

The car slowed to a stop, it’s tires crunching loud against the stray gravel of his neighbors walkway, and Iverson was quick to set the parking brake with a pointed look oddly reminiscent of the one his dad used to give him. “Go inside,” he said. Added, “ _Rest,_ ” with an accusatory glare that left little room to argue. “And don’t worry about clocking in on time tomorrow because I’m logging it as a personal emergency.”

Lance frowned. “I’m not... _dysfunctional_ , sir. I can handle this much.”

And Iverson mused, “Sure you can,” as he scoured the dark street of his neighborhood idly. “But give it a couple hours and you’ll be thanking me come morning.”

The doors unlocked then, a sharp sound that cut loud through the lingering silence, and Lance couldn’t help flinching before he looked up at where his boss had gestured towards his front porch impatiently. “You can get the fuck out of my car now, McClain.”

And the lens is gone.

Lance fought back the tiniest of smiles, seeing as Iverson looked just as close to cracking himself, and took his leave on unreliable legs that threatened to cave at any second. He had the mind to offer a haphazard wave, one Iverson accepted with a sharp nod of gratitude, before he quickly shut the door behind himself with a nervous scan of his driveway.

The porch light was still lit, just as it had been when Keith and Takashi had dropped him off those blissful hours prior, and part of Lance blames the sudden bout of nerves that come back ten fold on this thought as it stopped him in his tracks. Sent Lance glancing about his front yard anxiously, irked for a change to find his door was still slightly ajar, and spared a moment to wave Iverson off with a reassuring thumbs up before shutting (and locking) himself inside.

Consider that lesson learned.

Lance let out a heavy sigh, a bone deep fatigue settling in the caverns of his marrow as he leaned back against the door frame and squeezed his eyes shut. Logically, he knew the chances of Sendak coming back for him were slim to none, he _knew_ that. But it didn’t hurt to be cautious. So he spends the next five minutes locking and re-locking the deadbolt above his unreliable doorknob until the urge lessened.

Subsided.

He leaves it, satisfied with this new (see concerning) regimen, and stopped mid turn when he caught the glint of where his phone had gone flying in the tussle. It lay useless by the kitchen entrance, the glass screen a mess of thin fissures, and Lance forced himself to sheltered ignorance lest the added weight of that incoming expense was enough to tip the scale.

He decides it would be best to leave Keith’s jacket on as a means for selfish comfort—shut up—but doesn’t argue in the least when it comes to shucking off his dirty jeans and switching them out for a clean pair of sleep shorts. He’d probably do good to shower too, but the thought of having to close his eyes, during what was, quite literally, one of the most vulnerable of moments in a persons everyday life made him want to vomit.

_Again._

So he leaves that too; saves it for another day and moves on.

Because Lance wasn't under any illusions when Iverson had dropped him off at his porch. Hadn’t forgotten the moments leading up to his abduction when he’d been in a near frenzy trying to pin-point his current resident count. But Lance still couldn’t help the nagging hope in the back of his mind that he would walk in and find Hunk and Pidge passed out on his bedroom floor. The warmth of their presence still permeating. Of course they aren’t, and Lance can only allow himself to sulk for so long before it started to get in the way of his post-shitshow duties.

He needed to focus.

Take stock.

All of which he’d start by doing a thorough sweep of his bedroom. His bedroom that, for the most part, was still untouched. Messy like he’d left it, but organized in a way that only Lance knew how to comb through when spring cleaning came around. He kicked at a few stray shirts, sifted through some month old magazines he’d shoved away on his bookshelf, and tested the resistance of his window carefully before yanking the curtains closed. 

Not because he needed to, he just...felt like it...

 _Anyway_.

Blue finds him quick after that. Somewhere between his bathroom and bedroom closet, and she waits, over eager for compliments as she roved about his legs purring with a relaxed smile.

Lance nudged her, “Hey, girl,” and crouched down to soothe the inviting arc of her spine. “You watch over the house while I was gone?”

Blue knocked her head into his knuckles, her responding vibrations relaxing against his open palms, and the tabby leaned further up into his lingering caress before cracking her eyes over at him lovingly. She meowed, the cutest of confirmations, and Lance couldn’t help smiling in response as he straightened up, “C’mon, chica,” and rubbed his fingers for her to follow. “Let’s get you some food.”

Food is sloppy and thrown together, like the growing theme of Lance’s life, but Blue doesn’t judge him too hard and Lance is eternally grateful for it. Especially when he spends close to five minutes turning on every single light in his apartment and another two checking and re-checking his front door, before finally getting around to opening some random can of tuna he finds stashed away in the back of his pantry.

He dodged another one of Blue’s poorly made attempts at beating him to the counter, pressing a hip into the marble for some much needed support, and strained his wrist twisting  the crank of the can opener as the tabby yowled from below. 

“I know, Blue,” Lance grit. “I know. Just give me—“

The can skates out from under the metal clamp, catching him across the meat of his palm and sending a spatter of blood against the pale backsplash and countertop. It wells and drips a clean line down the curve of his thumb and Lance curses low under his breath as he dropped the offending metal and turned the faucet on hastily.

“Fuck,” he panted. “Fuck, fuck— _“_

_Ow._

Lance caught his lower lip between his teeth and eyed where Blue had jumped up to take advantage of the unguarded can. It’s not nearly as open as it could be, but Lance has bigger things to worry about.

Like his mutilated palm.

Or better yet, the all consuming feeling that this might be what it feels like to have a mental breakdown.

That Lance might have officially _lost_ it _._

And the crazy thing—no pun intended—is that it only took him ninety-plus-thousand words. Ninety-plus- _thousand_ words for him to come to a conclusion that took normal people only a fraction of that.

He’d sit here and try to convince you he’d been preparing for this moment for some time now, but the fact of the matter is it hits him out of nowhere. Hits him in the midst of feeding his fucking _cat_.

And if Lance were any sort smart, he’d stop everything he was doing to take this moment to process. To take control of it before it took control of him 

But he wasn’t.

He wasn’t smart.

And that is why he faulters.

Lance tries to catch himself before he can slip, thrown by the subtle shift in mentality, but he feels his grip weaken under the strain and he can’t hold himself any longer before he’s falling. Spiraling. The counter does a good job holding him up physically, but Lance feels the resonating snap in his mind. Like the classic skip of a record.

And the sad thing is almost all of this could’ve been avoided. Really, none of this would’ve happened had Lance taken the necessary precautions in the beginning.

Because Lance _knew_ he should’ve analyzed Sendak as anyone would a sociopath the second he showed up on his doorstep uninvited. Knew he should’ve taken his time, given the detective some true, meticulous thought before letting his brain get overrun with everything else the man had strategically thrown at him.

And yeah, maybe Lance should’ve leaned in closer, maybe he should’ve whipped out the magnifying glass, scrutinized the fine print of the detectives shitty personality label, and scheduled a consultation with his immediate doctor because, come to find out, the man. Has long lasting. _Side effects_.

He’s an adverse reaction.

Lance can’t be sure how long the symptoms will last, but he knows he rides out the worst of the effects with his head lowered in his kitchen sink as he tried to self-purge whatever he could of the copious amounts of fear and paranoia that seemed to be wreaking havoc on his insides.

Because Sendak is an unsolicited overdose. He’s a bad strain. Just two hours alone with the asshole and Lance could already feel the effects of his dosage in the sudden shake of his hands and the throb of his unsteady pulse; like his body was just _now_ catching up and beginning to tweak.

His brain provides the helpful word anxiety.

Webmd tells him it’s emotional shock.

So, in usual Lance fashion, he chalks it up to a previously emptied stomach and tries to move on with life like nothing ever happened.

Only he can’t.

Because this breakdown thing? It doesn’t just, happen. Hell, it took him damn near twenty chapters before he even began to consider his mental state wasn’t faring well, so no. Despite what Lance may have alluded to those few paragraphs above, he’s not perfectly fine one moment and coo-coo for cocoa puffs the next.

It’s gradual; Sendak’s influence. It’s a twenty-four hour wait period. One that Lance, and everyone else reading, will begin to see coming _after_ the break in writing—just you wait.

Just you wait...

By the time Lance has it in himself to ebb the flow of his gory hand, a Cotten ball and band-aid the best his sleep addled brain can come up with, Blue has knocked her dinner to the floor. Tuna chunks paint the tile; add to the evergrowing mess of Lance’s shitty night, and practically force him to clean the horrors around him before he’s able to back himself slowly into his living room and collapse into the empty loveseat with a punched sigh.

The usual nest of blankets and pillows that had not since moved from two months ago had disappeared along with a lone set of headphones that were almost always attached to a familiar clunky laptop. Pidge had mentioned the set belonging to her older brother in passing, and Lance felt a horrible sense of dread, if only for a moment, that Sendak might’ve swiped the sentimental piece in his absence. But the girl was never seen without it somewhere on her person.

And if the laptop was somewhere safe, Pidge was undoubtedly too.

He just had to believe Hunk had kept his promise.

Which reminded him.

Lance reached a hand out towards his off center coffee table, fingers suspended lazily in their stretch, and groped at the mahogany in search of his own laptop.

There were things he needed to make note of if he wanted to start out ten paces ahead of the game come time for him and Iverson to debrief in the morning. None of which could happen, if he couldn't find his goddamn—

Lance ran his palms along the wood, fingers feeling underneath the open space quizzically, and he shot up to look around the small room in question when he once again, came up short.

Had he..?

No.         

No, no, no. Lance shook his head and pushed himself upright. The damn thing had been left in his car when Thace took it upon himself to drive it back to his apartment, _that_ , he remembered. Takashi had been adamant. Had burned all pink in his fluster as he went off about making sure Lance had all his stuff for his coming work week, _especially_ after he’d  gotten hurt like he had. And Takashi hoped, desperately, that the inconvenience didn’t flow over into Lance’s inability to clock in on time due to a transportation issue.

 _That_ , Takashi’s flounder, he remembered too.

 _Vividly_.

Lance swung his legs over the side of the couch, head swimming slightly as he did so, and swiped up his forgotten keys with a quick glance Blue’s way when he heard the metal scrape against the hard tile of his kitchen floor. She didn’t look to have made a dent in the food, her efforts effectively keeping it out of tongues reach, and he called a quick promise to come back and open the metal further before he forgot and turned in.

Teeth first, Lance. Teeth first.

The world outside was suspended in that time of day where the moon had yet to retire and the sun was reluctant to show its face. Everything had been doused in gray hues and dull blues. The color of dawn emulating a feel of nostalgia where only few birds were brave enough to voice their morning opinions.

And despite tourist distaste, Lance was grateful for the threat of rain, a true and regional smell that hit heavy at his senses and dampened the already sweat-coated strands of hair that curled invitingly in the mist. A detox in its truest form. He wasn’t nearly as on edge as he had been coming home, but the distance it took for him to reach his car was enough to have his skin tingling, if only slightly, in charged apprehension; _paranoia_.

Consider it another side effect of Sendak’s pleasantries.

_Ha._

Really. Lance had to laugh.

There was a time and place for everything, but Lance can’t help the snort that slips out when he realized just how horribly Thace had parked. No doubt more than a foot away from the curb. And the front tires were cranked completely to the left, as if he’d tried to back up and correct, but gave up in a fit of frustration that left him crooked in the road.

Its a tragedy is what it is.

Lance snickered again, tempted to take a picture, but chose to pocket the material for a later time as he tugged the back door open and leaned in to grab where he was sure his bag had been thrown in their fit of hysteria.

Which it had been. Because it’s there, hidden under the flimsy privacy of an empty soda can and a long forgotten rag that managed to wedge itself into the adjustment of Lance’s drivers seat. It won’t give at first, but he  eventually managed to jostle the thing free and with it, his laptop, all in one go.

Now for the damage.

His work bag, upon closer inspection, was still seemingly intact, the contents appearing to be un-tampered with and present from what he could tell. Notebooks were closed, the hook of a pen stretched securely over the thick sheets, and his tape recorder was still shoved in the front pocket beneath a small pencil pouch just as he’d left it after talking to Rolo and Nyma which...was swell and all, but also completely useless until he was able to clear their names for anonymous use.

 _Dammit_.

Sure, Iverson says there’s nothing that could’ve happened that couldn’t wait until morning, but a lot of what Lance had gone through over the past couple of days had yet, and desperately _needed,_ to be processed. That’s just how these sort of things worked.

From the information he’d been given by Nyma and Rolo, to the shit Sendak had spewed that had turned this case on its head, all of it had a place in his notes and required immediate dissection before he could even begin to think of his next game-plan. It had to be broken down; down into bite size pieces he could work with before he lost all initial insight and hindered the validity of his recollection.

Because believe it or not, Lance had reached the point of no return.

And the last thing he needed right now was to let his guard down and risk having not one, but _three_ targets on his back due to his thoughtlessness.

He needed to know where he stood.

Immediately.

Lance hooked the strap of his work bag over the bruise on his shoulder, laptop pressed loosely to his chest, and let the car door swing closed with a heavy _thunk_ before locking it and stowing his keys away. He would make sure to get up early enough tomorrow to prevent his neighbors calling a tow on Thace’s hack-job parking, but first, he’d get that picture he’d held off on and send it to Shiro just to maintain the residual warmth left in their wake.

Saturday would be good for them, Lance thinks. Good for progress. But if he didn’t get to organizing his information soon, he’d be pulling another all nighter. Two, at this rate.

Lance reached his door faster this time around and grabbed at the doorknob with a twist. Twists again when the lock jammed on the inside and refused him entry. Which wouldn’t be the first time, the lock was finicky in that sense, but he finds himself in the throes of confusion because he’s not even sure he’d locked the door to begin with.

Just his luck.

Lance scoffed, rolled his eyes to really stick it to the man, and scrounged around in his back pocket to grab where his keys had inevitably gotten stuck. He tsked, “I swear,” and felt his frustration peak when the key caught on the fabric of his shorts and _ripped_. Left him gawking. “Of- _fucking_ -course,” Lance hissed. “This night just keeps getting better and—”

“Better?”

 _Holy_ —

A hand shot out.

And to be more specific, an _arm_ shot out, clad in dark leather and carrying a familiar musk of tobacco and desperately needed showers. There’s not nearly enough time for his brain to register the offensive presence much less react. But by the time he does put two and two together, his legs have buckled, feet tripping up on the awkward step, and his computer clatters loud against the asphalt as his hands instinctively reached up to grab at the assaulting limb cutting too long breaks into his air.

His nails catch rough leather and sewed in string. Two things that were dead ends for self-defense because skin was completely out of the picture and with it, any means of retaliation that might have had an effect on the fated outcome of his situation.

So Lance flailed for balance, hit flat against a broad chest in his failure, and that hand, familiar in its thickness, but all the more terrifying this time around, clutched tight at his hip and dragged him back against his assailant in just a matter of _seconds_.

Seconds that bleed into one another, dragging on and on for what feels like hours before Lance finally found it in himself to scream and scream _loud_. Scream until the arm tightened, choking him off into a pained gurgle, and had his skin burning red with exertion as he tried to take in enough air to stave off the dark spots blinding his already hindered vision.

“Ah-ah-ah,” the voice tuts, gruff and warm and revolting against his straining throat as cracked lips brushed gentle at his ear and stilled for a click of their tongue. “None of that, Lance,” they say, and their arm rings tight across his neck moments after, not once  letting up, so they can circle their fingers around his throat in a skilled display of restraint.

Then they _hummed,_ asoft smile stamped hot against the throb of his jugular, and Lance could already feel the heat of his tears tracking lines along his cheeks as a thumb angled his head off to the left and held him still oh so carefully.

Held him _knowingly_.

Lance doesn’t need to see to feel where his shirt rides up, unwelcome fingers running from thigh to throat where they joined up under the left of his jaw and tapped a distracting rhythm into his pulse. Where they circled deadly, a twenty finger countdown on his life because there isn't a gun. And from what he could tell, there was no knife either.

If they wanted him for anything other than to rid Lance of this Earth, then they would've done something by now.

Taken him somewhere.

But they hadn’t.

And it’s that fine tipped realization that has Lance tensing, has his keeper peeking down at him with a sigh of true, and mocking, regret, as he tightened his hold and flashed Lance a _‘what can you do’_ sort of look.

“I told you to be safe, didn’t I?” Sendak cooed. 

And that’s about as much as his body can handle before self-preservation kicked in.

Lance felt himself jerk, every muscle in his entire being seeming to twitch back into awareness where he lay, sprawled out at an awkward angle on his less than comfortable couch. Blue had gone skittering to the floor in his seize, her claws carving a path along his torso as she did so, and if that wasn’t enough to wipe away the lingering remnants of Sendak’s presence, Lance didn’t know what would.

He gasped, “S-Shit,” and let himself sag back into the cushions a shivering mess of adrenaline withdrawal as the worst of the nightmare ran it’s course. Ravaged him from the inside out and put him right back where he started. 

On the brink of instability.

Cue those conveniently spaced periods.

 

.   .   .

 

Lance, for the longest time, had always found something marginally fascinating about what it took to have a solid rising action. And he mentions this because whenhe wakes up on this soon-to-be-shit of a Friday afternoon, his immediate thirst for blood is at a reasonable all-time-low.

Nothing out of the ordinary here, people. He  was A-Okay and moving onto bigger and better things.

Try to keep it moving.

There is no jump from zero to one hundred. No pin-point moment where Lance just loses it. It all happens gradually, the same way a good rising action came about

And since Lance didn’t really have a say in the whole matter, what with these topics being predetermined and all that, he figured he would spend just a short amount of time mending some broken parts and pieces before explaining the five-elements of writing theme above that would surely get away from him.

So, first things first.

We had spent a generous amount of paragraphs and introductions talking about the dangers of leaving gaps before—and for those of you who are confused or forgetful, please see chapter 12—but for the sake of time and the stretched patience of his lovely readers, Lance would like to pretend that those recurring gaps had been filled prior to this out of the blue excerpt and not done in a frenzied rush that’s about a minutes read below.  

So to quickly recap the things he hadn’t had the decency to touch upon, Lance had started his Friday morning with the weight of his earlier affairs, out of sight, out of mind.

He’s a clean slate.

Iverson had so kindly provided him with an excused excuse to come in as late as he wanted, and Lance had milked that for all that it was worth before the shrill screech of his alarm clock and Blue’s impatient cries for attention had him rolling—out of bed this time—with a wounded groan.

Nothing out of the ordinary still, just as he’d said.

Come back next week when shits sure to get more intense.

Okay?

By the time that Lance had showered and gotten to looking reasonably human once again, he spent a good ten minutes puking the rest of this morning’s nerves into his poorly used bathroom sink; proceeded to brush away the taste of bile with a heaping glob of toothpaste that ended up dribbling down his chin—he was so violent with it.

And he tries for a quick bagel too; ends up burning it black on one side and gives up trying to choke it down when he’s forced to punch another lump of bread from his esophagus in the midst of a chasing hasty bite. Allura could cough up a donut for him once he clocked in.

He didn’t need to take this shit.

Wrinkle-release can only do so much for his last clean dress shirt, so Lance does his best to fix it with a half-assed attempt at a necktie that leaves him looking scruffy and haggard. Like the guy you cross the street to get away from on a Saturday night out.

It’s less of what Lance considered ordinary, at least for him, but it’s the perfect example of more boring exposition that was needed to justify the sudden jump from rising action to climax. 

But Lance would get there eventually.

He always did.

Traffic was shit at 12:32 on a Friday afternoon because why wouldn’t it be, and the coffee shop Lance usually had time to stop by during his morning commute to work was just as, if not _more_ , cluttered than the outside streets, so Lance was practically forced to fight his way to a simple vanilla iced coffee lest he die trying to be polite. It doesn’t help either that the young barista with a knack for spelling names wrong—his cup said, _Lace—_  screws his order up just as bad; yet another hit to Lance’s already plummeting mood. And by the time he makes it across the street and into his car, the realities of his situation are starting to bleed through his optimism.

Rising action in 3...2...1

Traffic is still shit at 12:58 on a Friday afternoon because fuck Lance, right? And some asshole who must think their designated parking garage is free for public use has backed his BMW into _his_ spot, _his_ , even though Lance—spellcheck L-A-N-C-E, not _Lace_ , you condescending bitch—was clearly marked on the dirty wall behind it.

Obviously they saw it, they just didn’t have the energy to walk the extra twenty steps to make it to the elevator. So Lance sits, idling in the heat of his car, wondering whether it’d be worth it to take a key to the pricks entire drivers side or nail his tires. He could get both done in just a matter of seconds, but the thought of having Hunk and Allura parked so close to the guy had him cursinghis morale and driving past with a dejected grumble. Lance wouldn’t feel right putting the state of his friends day in jeopardy for the sake of his.

Even _if_ Hunk deserved the possible backlash.

Which reminded him; that climax he’d mentioned in passing? The moment everyone had been waiting for? Yeah, it was coming.

It was coming.

Because Lance had always prided himself on having the ability to keep a tight cap on his ever fluctuating emotions. Personal business was kept separated from work business, and work business was kept separated from life business because the chances of things escalating between either/or was always too high to justify the risk. Sure, he kept close relationships within the office, Hunk was his best friend, Allura and him might’ve had a thing for a week or two. But they knew there was a time and place for everything. Call him a hypocrite, but conflicts of interest were kept under tight wraps within his group.

So it’s understandable when Lance is thrown for a loop. Caught off guard. Whatever you wanted to say to show he’d been blindsided would work because he was usually better at this. At not letting his emotions run away from him. But the longer he was forced through the motions of what was quickly becoming an impending meltdown, the more he began to feel the psychological wear and tear that had buried itself under the facade of sleep deprived fatigue.

Coffee was a mistake.

Coffee was a _big_ mistake.

Lance popped a month old mint he’d found at the bottom of his glove compartment onto the center of his tongue, already set and determined to throw away whatever blend of sadness and self-loathing the barista had juked him into buying, into the trash, and scurried out and onto the garage elevator with his work back swinging in tow.

He pushed for level eleven, shook out the unease in his hands, and tried to hold off the impending panic before it got the best of him.

_Time and place, time and place._

Things needed to happen today in an organized and orderly fashion. There was no getting out of that. His approach, his _processing_ , all these things needed to come by carefully. Iverson had done him a big favor, huge, in getting him out from under Sendak’s detainment as quickly as he’d done, though Lance was sure he owed a lot of that to Regris, but the night had ended without a single eye opening moment of clarity and that was something he was paying for.

Where was the ‘ah-ha’ moment?

The well-known ‘I got it’ finger snap?

Lance had strategically chosen to skip his usual run through of connect-the-dot observations because there was never—

The elevator came to a concerning halt, its un-maintenanced doors cursing their need of oil, before one, two, _three_ people who just had to work in print came clambering on.

Lance shifted over; let his discomfort show on his face.

Tried to keep it moving.

There was never a moment of clarity. That climax he’d been working towards this entire update, never happened last. And some might argue Lance _had_ reached that point in the five stages, hell, Sendak had practically admitted to a number of things. Not to mention how Takashi and Keith were now in the clear, right?

 _Right,_ Lance?

Well the answer was no. No, Takashi and Keith weren’t in the clear. Sendak had alluded to a number of things, not _admitted_ , and Lance was left scrambling to finish the puzzle so poorly scattered before him.

Sendak had left Lance on his own life-threatening terms and, in doing so, Lance was scared shitless and in desperate need to decipher. He made it out alive, yes, but part of him loathed the fact now that he caught himself looking over his shoulder every five seconds as he tried to put two and two together. Tried to figure out the state of Takashi and Keith’s prominence in this case now that everything he’d constructed in his head was off target.

Lance was backed into an unlikely corner and now he had to unclutter. So he makes the questionable decision of taking the entirety of his encounter with Pidge’s shitty detective, and hucking it into a steel vault; never to be opened again.

Sendak finding him? In the vault.

That nightmare? In the vault.

Shiro and Keith no longer involved in the cover-up— _tentatively—_? In the vault.

Hunk—

An elbow catches him in the side and Lance is suddenly all too aware of the growing number of bodies piling into the small space. The panel is aglow with practically every button having been pushed, and Lance was forced to cram himself further into the corner to sidestep the dagger of a heel clicking way too close to his foot for comfort.

Someone apologized, sheepish but in no way towards Lance and his forced discomfort, and he was only just starting to fall back into an awkward form of tolerance when someone else sneezes; slow on the cover.

“Alright, I’m out. Excuse me.” Lance shoved forward, coffee held high above the sea of heads as he stabbed a finger into the emergency open and kneed a mail boy out of the way. “Sorry,” he stammered. “I’m sorry.”

Few shoves more and he’s free.

Lance adjusted the sagging strap of his work bag and ignored the startled, if not put-out, faces watching from within their boxed clump of space as the doors finally slid shut and spared him the risk of whatever airborne disease was now infesting the damn thing.

Last thing he needed was a fucking cold, but he’s getting off track again. He needed to stay organized.

Where was he.

Hunk. Right.

 _Hunk,_ with all his compulsive urges to act before he thought, which ultimately resulted in one of the worst nights of Lance’s career and life, _would_ be going in the vault alongside the others, but couldn’t because that vault had an assigned seat right in front of Lance’s face making it damn near unavoidable.

Diagonal to his face, to be more precise. And through a thin wall of wood and bolts.

Addressing Hunk and his decision to do certain things would have to be a matter handled in an appropriate period of time. Lance needed to make sure there was absolutely no possibility that they would have another screw up that would jeopardize not only the integrity of Lance’s cover, but the safety of his and Pidge’s wellbeing _alone_.

All Lance had to do was stay calm, go at it with a clear head, and remind himself there was no reason to get upset like he—

_Could._

Like he wanted to, so badly, right now.

Lance didn’t move his hand from where it had hovered, inches from the door handle, and tried to breathe through the unhealthy palpitation of his heart when the metal swung back without the support of a hand to stop it, and gave him a finishing tap to his already abused shoulder.

The cup held in his fingers had flattened against his chest completely, nothing but an empty roll of paper at this point, and stuck for a few comical moments before finally fanning to the ground in a puddle of its own contents.

Briel blanched, “L-Lance,” and looked down at Lance’s once clean shirt with a horrified glint in his eyes. “I-I am so sorry, man. I didn’t even see you there. Do—do you need me to—”

“Walk away,” Lance cut in quietly. He shook his hand out in a sticky spray of cream and sugar and looked up when he didn’t get an immediate response. Must not have clicked then, so he repeated himself, this time a little louder. “Just walk away, Briel.”

And there it is.

A blend of confusion and offense trickled into the man’s expression, his lips quirked into what could only be a sheepish look, before they twitched down at the corners and encouraged him to take those first few steps back in realization; as if Briel hadn’t been sure if Lance was joking or not. Then he turned on a heel, back stiff as he went, and retreated down the hall with only a quick look of concern tossed over a shoulder before he disappeared completely.

“God _dammit_. Fucking—” Lance turned his glare downwards and eyed his soaked shirt in disgust. His pulse had jumped in the confrontation, cheeks heating in both humiliation and ratcheting _annoyance_ , because Lance wasn’t _mad_.

No, he was fine. _This,_ was fine.

Hunk calling him in as a missing person? That was actually the greatest thing to happen to him, now that Lance thought about it, because now he had another lead on Keith and Shiro, right? He had evidence the two weren’t linked to the department, not to mention how he had even _more_ evidence, that linked _said_ department to an obstruction of evidence during a fucking investigation. So really, Lance had no reason to be _mad_.

Nope, not him. He should be happy.

He should be over-the-fucking-moon now that he got a night of fighting for his sanity over with, _God_ , what was he _thinking_?

Lance shoved the staircase door out of his way and ignored the resonating crash as the metal flew back and hit whatever bullshit plaque had been stupidly hanging there. He saw Nadia flinch to his right, her dark hair ducking down behind the safety of reception when he turned, and he didn’t care to acknowledge her further as she offered a two finger salute and whistled when he passed.

“Should I ask?”

“Are you sure you want to?”

Nadia purses her lips, head tilting persuasively to the left as she nodded, “You’re right, I don’t,” and fired finger guns to win him over. “Don’t kill anyone, McClain. That shit they use on blood is repulsive.”  

“Wouldn’t even dream of it, Rizavi,” he gnashed.

Now, the thing about the five stages of story development that made it so damn interesting, was that the steps in which one got to each stage always varied. Those wanting to take their time could spend chapters upon chapters in the exposition, drawing out a character's backstory until you knew exactly what they ate the morning of their first day of grade school. Others would throw readers right into it without warning, choosing to build exposition through the climax of their work because believe it or not, you can have more than one.

But the thing that Lance found most intriguing about this pyramid of guidance, was the fact that something as little as stubbing a toe, or biting a tongue, could be a trigger for that long awaited peak in plot; a complete zero to one hundred that could happen in just a matter of sentences.

Three, in this case. Because as it stood, Lance had already endured a series of unreasonably timed unfortunate events that had gradually built up the rising action and had finally reached that point where everything came to a violent head.

All good stories followed this development.

So try not to judge him too hard for come time for his climax.

Lance let his work bag drop somewhere near what he hoped was his desk and bypassed Allura’s prompt of genuine surprise to round in on Hunk.

Hunk, who was mid bite into a subway sandwich and looking entirely too invested in a video on his screen to notice where Lance had taken to standing over him; a literal shadow of doom.

So he nudged the man, a well aimed shot to the shoulder-blade, and watched as Hunk flailed an arm up and swatted at his headphones with a startled look of confusion. His teeth stayed clenched between the thick slices of bread, eyes still partially glazed in their perplexity, before they cleared behind a few rapid fire blinks and widened almost to the point of worry.

Hunk hacked, a spillage of tomato and lettuce alike streaking down his hands in a finger painting of mayo as he sputtered, “L-Lance!” and ditched the sub in a frantic search for napkins. “Oh my god, man,” he said breathlessly. “Where the hell have you been? Allura and I looked everywhere for you, and Iverson said—”

Lance reached out to Hunk, a smile tight at his lips when his friend cut off and stared at the nervous placement of his hand. He grimaced, “Look, buddy, that’s great. Really, it is. But I kinda need to talk to you for a second in private, okay? Is that okay?”

Hunk blinked, glanced down at his lap and pursed his lips with an innocent shake of his head. “Y-Yeah, uh. Lemme just turn...this off real quick and...” He coughed.

Lance stepped back to give Hunk some room to stand, eyes flickering about the office self-consciously, and he so stupidly went and caught Iverson’s gaze through the open windows of his office so he’s forced to give a half-assed nod of acknowledgement before turning away.

“Alright,” Hunk announced. “You wanna…?” He gestured awkwardly with his hand, “Wanna go?”

And Lance jumped, “Yeah. Yeah, um.” Felt himself cringe as he half-stumbled into the walkway and tried to right himself. “Just. Come with me for a second. Thanks.”

Hunk nodded shortly, “It’s no problem,” and followed close behind as Lance hurried towards the end of the hall.

He could feel where Allura watched them, more questions than answers dying at the forefront of her tongue as the weight of her gaze and a thousand others tracked them down the entire hallway, and didn’t let up until Lance had closed themselves into the empty meeting room with a shaky exhale.

“You alright, man?” Hunk cocked his head off to the side and squinted at him carefully. “You look...unsteady.”

Hunk probably wanted to say unhinged but he’s just being polite.

Still, Lance felt his lips twitch into what he hoped was a reassuring smile, probably came out sour and pained, before he stepped away from the door and tried to figure out what to do with his hands. Settles for his pockets and has to pull them out immediately when it restricts his movements too much.

“Look.” Lance sucked in a breath. “I know you probably have questions for me and I _promise,_ I will get to every single one of them as soon as I can, but before that, I need to ask you something.”

Hunk’s expression shifted, his eyes sharpening just the slightest as he nodded slowly and said, “Okay, man.” Stuttered, “A-Anything.”

And okay. That’s awesome. They were actually off to a great start.

Lance flashed Hunk another weak smile, pressing out a sigh, in and out, and started, _slowly._  “The man you sent after me,” Lance cautioned. “The detective you filed a missing persons report with.”

Hunk shook his head, “Yeah?”

And Lance tried to keep his voice from cracking the way he knew it would if left unchecked. So he swallowed, blinked the edging sting in his eyes, and breathed, “Why,” to which Hunk raised a confused brow and winced.

“What...what do you mean, _why_?” He asked. “Lance, you disappeared. Pidge and I waited, but you never showed—”

“Because I was fucking—” Lance sank a canine into outburst and flinched; tried again. “I’m not mad,” he assured, trying to calm the bubble of heat that was manifesting itself faster than he could comprehend. “I’m not mad,” he said again. “I’m just—I’m _trying_ to wrap my head around it is all. So it’s okay. It’s fine, alright? I’m not mad. But Hunk.” Lance took a step forward. “ _Buddy,”_ he strained. “ _Why_ did you go to the _police?_ ”

Lance stared at Hunk as if the man could physically see the turmoil in his words, the desperation that turned him into a fleshy suit of uncontrollable tremors as he tried to gain some traction and right himself. Because _maybe_ if he understood why Hunk had gone to Sendak, what transpired between the two when he’d done so, Lance would begin to understand just what it was he was looking at.

He would still have a card to play.

But the way that Hunk looked at him, a frustration and disbelief written in every single one of his movements, had Lance biting down on that rising heat of anger threatening to melt him from within.

“You didn’t really give me any other choice, dude. You went _missing_ ,” Hunk stressed, like he really wanted to drive that home, before he added, “For _two_ days, Lance. I-I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“That’s fine,” Lance said hastily.“I get that part, alright, but listen. You’re not _listening_ to me, Hunk.”

Hunk pushed his hands out in a _calm-down_ gesture and tried to speak evenly. “I don’t understand what you’re asking, Lance.”

“Obviously fucking not, otherwise I wouldn’t be in this mess, now would I!”

“Okay, time out,” Hunk raised a hand and glared at Lance now, let some of his own frustration slip into his tone as he really looked Lance up and down. Really gave him a once over. “What part of you not coming home makes me the bad guy, dude. I waited. I did what I was supposed to do as your editor and as your friend, by going to the police.”

“That wasn’t necessary,” Lance argued.

And Hunk’s face twisted in incredulity. He sputtered, “You could’ve been dead for all we knew!”

“But I wasn’t,” Lance bit back. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, the half-dried creamer leaving his strands in sugary clumps as he paced back and forth and tried to breathe calmly; evenly. Tried to remember he didn’t come here to fight, but Hunk wasn’t understanding the true extent of his actions. He didn’t know because he wasn’t _there_.

“Was it really so wrong for me to worry about you?” Hunk asked incredulously. “It wasn’t that big of a deal, man.”

“Except it was kind of a big deal, Hunk.” Lance snapped. “You didn’t just go to the police, dude, you sent Sendak!” Lance spit the word hard enough to make Hunk jump and smacked the back of his hand into his palm viciously. “You sent _Sendak_ , Hunk. And I don’t know if you know this, but right now I’m looking down a two barreled shotgun where I either end up dead in a ditch somewhere or in prison being someone's little bitch, so if you could please, _help_ me understand, what it is I need to do to make sure I’m never put in a situation like this ever again, then it would be much appreciated. Because it’s kind of a big deal.”  

Hunk stared, eyes wide and unblinking, and his lips had parted ever so slightly, unspoken words lost to Lance’s fleeting anger as he tried to think of something weighted enough to say that wouldn’t fall flat.

He mustered a broken, “Lance,” hand outstretched to pull the smaller man in, but Lance shrugged him off weakly.

“I-I’m not mad,” Lance trembled. “I’m not—I’m not _mad,_ Hunk, I promise.”

“Okay, Lance,” Hunk assured thickly. “I got it now, alright? It’s my bad. I-I’m sorry.”

Large hands eased carefully at Lance’s shoulders, familiar in their weight, but warmer in ways that Sendak’s could never be, and he felt his legs give out just a little as Hunk pulled him in and pressed him close to his chest.

“I was so fucking scared, Hunk,” Lance admitted wetly. He squeezed his arms tight around the back of Hunk’s neck and hid a fighting sob in the safety of his chest as a palm soothed up and down his spine slowly; conveying a comfort he’d been in need of for what felt like days now.

And Hunk hugged him closer still, a quiet, “I didn’t know,” falling guilty on Lance’s ears as he felt the smaller man shake, and shake, and shake. Shake until Hunk wasn’t sure if it was possible for Lance to stand on his own anymore.

It’s not pretty.

It’s entirely unprofessional.

But it’s the falling action they’ve so desperately needed.

Lance doesn’t openly sob because Lance didn’t like the ugly sides of himself to be put on display. So Hunk is forced to sit with him, his own personal human shield, as he picked up the shattered pieces of his composure, and tried not to cut himself too bad when he glued them back together.

It’s slow going and tedious; another reason Lance would rather bottle things up than spend days on end putting himself back together like he was doing now, but Hunk is there to help him; keeping him upright when he doesn’t have the strength to do it himself as his best friend wiped away the snot and tears and tried to untangle the knots already cementing themselves into his hastily washed hair.

He sniffled, “I’m sorry,” and Hunk paused in his concentration to flash Lance a startled look before shaking with nervous laughter.

“Isn’t that my line?” He asks, and the words sound slightly hysterical.

Maybe because they are.

“It wasn’t like you’d known,” Lance shrugged.

Because like he’d said before. Coincidences happened in his line of work every single day. It was great when they worked in his favor, shitty when they exploited him the way this one had done, but they were coincidences nonetheless.

“Which is why I’m sorry too,” Hunk said. “You were right. I should’ve...trusted you more. I _should_ trust you more.”

Lance shot him a ‘ _you think_?’ look and poked at his thigh. “The least you could’ve done was go to a different police station. I mean c’mon, Hunk. Really?”

Hunk barked out a laugh and leaned into Lance’s shoulder with a trailing chuckle of guilt. “I know, I know,” he groaned, glancing up at the tired beam of a smile Lance produced. “I’m _really_ sorry, man. Had I known, I never would’ve gone, honest. I guess we’ve all been a little on edge with this case, you know? I’ve been worried about you.”

“You always worry about me,” Lance pointed out lightly, but Hunk just rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, well. You’re not working real hard at reassuring me, now are you?” Hunk grabbed at the lip of Lance’s shirt absentmindedly and let the stained fabric drop in question. “Care to explain?”

Lance heaved out a sigh, “About that,” and leaned back on his palms, knees knocking with Hunk’s own as his best friend cocked a brow. “I ran into Briel on my way up. Think I scared him pretty bad, too.”

Hunk nodded, ‘ _uh-huh_ ’, and tilted his head down in Lance’s general area asking, “And your wrists?” which had Lance raising a hand in surprise.

He scrutinized the raw ring of skin making an angry bracelet of cuts and bruises that he’d no doubt inflicted himself trying to test the strength of Sendak’s cuffs. He tells Hunk this exactly, and watches a shadow of concern darken his handsome features into something intimidating.

Lance waved him off. “It’s nothing,” he reassured. Was quick to add, “Iverson took care of it all, trust me,” to get that constipated look off his friends face.

“But this Sendak guy,” Hunk started. “He knows you have those files, right? The ones Pidge stole? So why didn’t he—”

“Arrest me?” Lance pursed his lips and shrugged his injured shoulder. “Because I have something he wants.”

“Those files.”

Lance nodded, _right_ , and rolled his ankles side to side idly. “It’s not my strongest card,” he admitted.

And Hunk nodded breathlessly, “You think?”

“But it’s the only card we got.”

Because there was only so much power Lance had over Sendak with a few measly documents. At any moment, the man could issue a search warrant, come up with some shitty excuse to raid his house, and somehow manage to come across the files and take it in as ‘evidence’ before arresting his ass and going after Pidge.

He’s an obstacle Lance would have to keep an eye on. A threat that would constantly be at the forefront of his mind until he could get a better angle.

“But until I get that angle, I think it’d be best to lay off Shirogane and Kogane. _For the time being,_ ” Lance rushed in when Hunk’s expression twisted again.

He was playing devil's advocate, yes, Lance knew that much, but it wasn’t for the reasons you would think. So stop staring at him like that Hunk and let him break this down into those bite sized pieces he’d been on about earlier.

Lance, some fifteen chapters ago, had come to a rather solid conclusion that Keith and Shiro were the reason behind Matt’s case going cold. He had a suspect, a.k.a one Takashi Shirogane, his loyal partner, Keith Kogane, and a seventeen year old girl with an assigned detective that was doing jack shit to help her; Pidge.

That detective had been his leading point. Kogane’s hire doing the dirty work and keeping Pidge quiet so they wouldn’t draw public attention.

Strong lead; had served Lance well in getting this far.

Now fast forward to the stolen files, to Lance’s justified anxiety as he went about his interviews and countless other moments he’d spent within his targets’ presence because it was only a matter of time before word got out that that precious file they’d worked so hard to keep hidden had gotten taken. Coincidentally at the same time that Lance came snooping around their construction business hinting at their missing friend.

Logic would say that Takashi and Keith should’ve been on to him by now.

The evidence was right there in front of them.

But here Lance was, two months into this case, and building a relationship with the two that was stronger than he ever thought possible.

They had no reason to be concerned about the file. That’s Lance’s ‘ah-ha’ breakthrough from all this. And if everything he’d said until this point had gone over your head; Takashi and Keith _weren’t_ the ones to institute the order to keep Matt’s disappearance quiet.

_That hadn’t been them._

Which didn’t make sense back then. Not until Sendak had come into the picture, at least. Because the man had screwed up the second he hinted at their names. Had come at Lance as if he were almost affiliated with the two, and danced around their identity as a means to get Lance to admit them himself.

Had he any knowledge or connections to Keith in the way Lance initially suspected, that Sendak was the detective Pidge had said that Keith had hired, then there was no reason for him to poke and prod at Lance the way he had done during his interrogation.

Sendak had become the key to Matt’s disappearance. The _department_ , was the key to Matt’s disappearance. Keith and Shiro were playing a part with their silence, but Lance could no longer justify his focus of blame on the two when Sendak was ready to do to Lance and Pidge what had been done to Takashi and Matt for their crime against his squadron.

“So, what now?”

Lance wrapped his arms around his legs and pressed his cheek to his knee with a frown of insecurity. “Now it’s just a race to the finish, I guess,” Lance muttered. “I need to see what else I can get out of Takashi and Kogane. Maybe get some insight on where they come into play in this whole thing before I really run out of time.”

“And Sendak?” Hunk asked.

Lance’s heart throbbed in his chest and he tried to cover his wince with a reassuring look that Hunk tried to ignore for Lance’s sake. “Last I heard, Iverson had most of it under control. He filed a complaint with the department and thinks that if we still have the documents in our possession, then Sendak won’t have a leg to stand on. At least not comfortably.”

Hunk wrung his fingers. “But what about you? We already know he’s not afraid to break the law, what’s stopping him from coming after you. After Pidge?”

And honestly; nothing.

Nothing was stopping him. Nothing but a few thin sheets of paper and a threat to his career. It was the little things that made the biggest impact, but there was no telling how long Sendak would allow for that to rule his life before he snapped.

The man wouldn’t be able to settle down until he got that information back where it belonged; out from under the risk of the public eye.

So as long as Lance had it, the threat would be never ending.

And things like that made even the most rational of men, paranoid.

“But this guy is a fucking lunatic,” Lance huffed. “So, there’s really no telling.”

Hunk made a petrified sound deep in his throat, staring at Lance as if he were crazy himself, and Lance tried his best to calm his worries it with a hearty laugh and another nudge Hunk’s way.

“I’m _kidding_ ,” he chidded; added, “Slightly,” as fast as he could manage before Hunk could get too comfortable. “But like I said. Iverson’s got it handled. And if anything else happens, we’ll cross that road when we get there, alright? Just stop reporting me to the police every time I miss a few calls, and we’ll be golden.”

Hunk flushed pink and shoved him. “It wasn’t just a few calls, Lance,” he mocked. “You had us scared shitless. Pidge even swore she’d kick your ass the next time she saw you.”

Lance immediately perked. He’d almost forgotten. “Where is she, by the way?” He asked “Both of you were gone by the time I’d gotten home last night.”

And if Hunk were here, then that meant he had he left her at...his place? Oh _God_ , Shay’s?

“Jesus, Lance. I’m not an idiot,” Hunk hissed. And he took to rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly before staring into the space between them. “I took her up to my parents place. And before you freak out, she’s fine.” Lance let his mouth click shut. “I didn’t know where you had gone or why you weren’t answering my calls. I kinda started to flip and worried that maybe someone would come looking for Pidge; if they’d taken you, y’know?”

 _Y’know_. Hunk says it like Lance should know but he doesn’t. He gave a disbelieving laugh. “Man, you _really_ thought I got murdered, didn’t you?”

“Isn’t that what I’ve been trying to tell you this while time!” Hunk exploded. “I mean, Jesus, Lance. Every week it’s something new with you, and now I gotta look after a kid? I only have one heart, man. I can’t keep doing this. You know high blood pressure runs on my dad’s side.”

Lance burst out laughing. Felt good doing so too as he leaned into Hunk’s chest, content to just, let the onslaught of assaults wash over him in a soothing scold he knowingly deserved. Then he murmured, “Thank you.” Blinked up at Hunk who blushed slightly and trailed off into a confused huff of silence. “You did amazing, Hunk, really. I don’t know what I would’ve done had Sendak shown up while you two were still there so, thank you.”

Large hands roved up his spine carefully, and a gentle rumble of acknowledgment hit warm against his chest as Hunk mumbled, “Of course,” and offered an easy smile that had Lance grinning back.

It’s probably as close to a resolution as they’ll get to today, one that isn’t set to last because as Lance pulled away, set and ready to tell Hunk they’d better head back, the insistent vibration in his pocket had him stopping mid suggestion and fighting his phone free with a pinched look of confusion.

“Is it Pidge?” Hunk asked. “I, uh. I texted her pretty quick after Iverson said he’d dropped you off at home.”

The screen lit up again, it’s vibrations just as urgent, and Lance quickly swiped a thumb over the arrangement of cracks before turning the sound off completely.

“It’s nothing,” Lance lied. And when Hunk pushed a brow up, eyes skeptical, Lance stressed himself this time. “I’m serious, man. It’s not Pidge.”

”Fine,” Hunk digressed with a raise of his palms. “But you’re calling her first thing this afternoon, got it?”

Lance saluted him, “Sir, yes sir,” and broke his rigid posture to smack gently at Hunks chest. “Now if you’re done playing momma bear, you wanna grab Allura for lunch?” He asked.

And just like that, all is right with the world again.

Hunk’s face lit up, his hands supportive in their excitement as he hauled Lance to his feet and took up a steady gush about some new burger stand he found on Meridian.

He grinned, practically vibrating with excitement, and Lance glanced down at his phone one last time, eyes taking in Keith’s own responding glare of an icon, before quickly stashing it in his back pocket and following after Hunk.

_Keith would have to wait..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, where do I even start.  
> This fic is officially one year old and it’s crazy to think that I completed my first fic in less than a month, haha. I know I’ve been slow as of late, and in terms of future updates I want to prepare you guys for a small hiatus while I get some life stuff in order. But that won’t be for a minute so don’t get lost in that what am I gonna do with myself mindset just yet!  
> ANYWAY!! I apologize for the wait, and for this long ass chapter because it kind of got away from me. I really wanted to try my hand at some Sheith but I was having a super hard time forming it the way I wanted and didn’t want my first attempt to be an epic fail. But that time is coming and my bitch ass is gonna be ready for it when it does.  
> Sheith aside, I really wanted to build Lance up to something that I think would realistically happen to anyone after some of the stuff he experienced. He didn’t just walk away from Sendak unaffected, and we see this in the way it sort of becomes the straw that broke the camels back in terms of every little thing that Lance has had to grin and bare up until this point.  
> Having to stew and obsess over some of the shit Sendak did and didn’t do gave us a new perspective of Lance that I think is really different.  
> He’s strong, but he’s human.  
> And I don’t think anyone in their right mind could go through the emotional rollercoaster as he’d done without coming out a bit fucked up.  
> I worked really hard to project some of the ways I understand this breaking point into Lance by making him fight to control it. The last thing he wants to do is hurt anyone, but we so how when he’s pushed, he has a tendency to explode. I still think his immediate switch to self-loathing really highlights just how good of a person he is in a way, though, and it was kind of fun to really push his vulnerability. Y’all are smart as shit too so I don’t have to explain this but I fumbled greatly trying to keep Lance in character enough to not be off, but still write him in the throes of mentally being worn down. If that makes sense?  
> We’re gonna get some more progression next chapter with Shiro and Keith (did somebody say smut?) and will soon be approaching the oh fuck shits going down so I’m super excited.  
> I cannot tell you guys enough how much your encouragement and patience means to me. Two months is asking so much of you all so I thank you for keeping the same energy as you’ve all had since last year. I hope I gave enough content to satisfy your bloodlust, and look forward to starting more chapters soon!


	19. Lost & Found

There are one, two, three, four, _five_ metal digits held fast around his trachea. Five metal digits that, after three laughably long weeks of waiting, had been comprised of some outlandish mix of titanium and steel by the most well renowned orthotists, neurologists, and surgeons that money could buy.

Keith had made sure of that. Had made sure that, even when things were looking grim, the lasting product would be nothing short of revolutionary.

God knew what would happen if it were anything less.

The hidden intricacies within the creation flexed, a well practiced demonstration of what was widely becoming an inadvertent medical breakthrough with the way the inorganic material worked jointly with the spine’s motor neurons. The two parts relying on a generate of feedback that allowed muscle movement and a sense of feeling in ways that had never been achieved before. And it was here, with legs spread and body pinned, that Keith got to experience the sheer magnitude of these innovative medical advancements, up close and firsthand.

Literally.

A smile slips. A thing so small and discreet, that Keith has to wonder if it matured in his distraction. If he’d actually _achieved_ it. But the response to his carelessness is almost instantaneous, the pressure of Shiro’s palm that much more aggresive against his compressed larynx. And when Keith swallows, what little saliva he misses leaking out along the underside of his jaw, he can feel where it pools lukewarm against his throat. The muted heat of its stagnancy as it catches thick in the seam of Shiro’s thumb and slicks the metal in a breathtaking glisten.

He’s almost tempted to look, but a warning squeeze cuts off his air, stealing whatever moxie he’d managed to muster up in the process, and it leaves him red faced and panting for a completely different reason then.

Though Shiro just continues to stare on at him impassively.

“What reason did Vrek have to be out there in the first place?” He asks, voice surprisingly even for someone as tied up as he was in the moment. And despite the fact his lover had gone stoic, all business in just a matter of seconds, there wasn’t a damn thing to be said that could detract from the rioting lust Keith had uncovered in Shiro’s gaze. The resolute way in which his eyes had fixated, pupils oil spilling through the steely grey, and had Keith moaning the last of his rationed air out, as he tried every tactic known to man to get the attention back on him.

Fought dirty the only way he knew how.

Keith plants his feet flat against the mattress, back bowing painlessly into the strained position, and he uses the give in leverage to rock his ass up into Shiro’s thighs. Fucking himself on the man’s cock for as long as the element of surprise will allow him, before Shiro was sinking his fingers—his flesh and blood fingers—deep into the unforgiving skin at his bruised waist, and snarling a near silent,  ** _stay_**.

Shiro’s expression contorted. Just not for him. “You said Westlake?”

Impatience rears its ugly head in the fidget of Keith’s fingers. The once divine grip wrung tight around his throat, nothing but a dull reality in the lull of conversation. Shiro’s hold had gone weak. Weak enough that Keith could breathe freely without struggle. Groan void of any strain.

He thinks it genuine laziness at this point, but realizes quite quickly that Shiro is doing it on _purpose_. Making a lesson out of his actions by glossing over Keith’s sullen look of agitation, and letting his gaze linger in the far corner of their bedroom where he listened intently to whatever was being said on the other end of the line.

It’s a power move; his _not_ moving.

A completely, and totally uncalled for _,_ form of payback.

The, “Asshole.”

Shiro’s gaze snapped downward, his lips twitching into that of a cruel half-smile, and Keith tried to suppress a tremble under its heat as the man’s grip tightened, pulsing in tune with Keith’s throbbing heartbeat, and spurred the rapid pick-up in rhythm as Shiro rolled his hips torturously slow.

Squeezed until Keith saw _stars_.

His cock drools deliriously, flushed and waiting for when Shiro will take a fucking hint and just _destroy_ him like he knew he could. Had done, so many times before. But Shiro refuses to indulge him, and as much as Keith wanted to test the man’s limits, tempted to see if he could get off on Shiro’s wanton glare _alone_ , he hopes to gain something by settling back into the sheets obediently and falling deathly silent.

He won’t say a single word unless it’s that of a desperate whine, or a thin gasp of need when Shiro’s grip suddenly flags mercifully.

“That’s not possible,” Shiro drones on, conversating out of habit like Keith _wasn’t_ a gasping mess of pleasure below him. But Shiro uses the idle pause in conversation to look down at where they’re connected, at where Keith’s body was gripping him tight along his girth and fluttering with each toe curling nudge of his hips. Pleasure shoots from the base of Shiro’s spine, lodging pin-pricks of euphoria in the pools of his central nervous system, and it gives him that little bit of incentive to rock deeper into Keith, moving without any real purpose but to watch the man’s eyes roll up mindlessly. Keith’s expression crumples, twisted in the weighted wash of sensation, and he makes a wounded sound low in his throat. A breathy, _yeah_ , slowing Shiro’s movements, then stopping them completely.

And the sound Keith makes is absolutely _guttural_. Starved and bordering on ravenous as he bared his teeth upward and wished Shiro were just close enough to bite. Just close enough, so he could satisfy the edge of clawing need careening about his organs in a all out frenzy. All Because Shiro. Wouldn’t. _Focus_ ; thefucking hypocrite.

He cocks his head, “That property?” and a bead of sweat goes rolling down the line of his clavicle as he continued to watch Keith, watch him; his throat working. “That property hasn’t been off it’s work-hiatus since early last winter. All active employees were relieved.”

Unlike Keith, who squirmed his impatience, smug for a change when Shiro’s air caught a bit at the jostle. But it isn’t until the man’s face scrunches up in raw surprise that Keith feels true confidence, like he might be getting the upper hand here, when Shiro sucked in another clipped breath and dropped his attention to where Keith had reached down to caress at his exposed navel. 

A weak spot.

Excitement ripples readily across the planes of Shiro’s stomach, a movement Keith tracks greedily as he trailed his fingers through the dark patch of hair and felt his way down to where he was currently split open. And he spasms with it, inadvertently jostling his own length in his ventures, as he grinned at the way Shiro flushed. Pink from scar, to dick, before he blinked once, twice, shook himself out of his revere and seated those last few inches inside him with a well aimed thrust.

Keith mewled, hands flying back to fist the sheets overhead, and he flashed Shiro a glare weighted in ways that would make any man or women piss themselves, but only served to please whatever part of Shiro had decided he _deserved_ it. Decided, between Keith’s snarling and whatever else had been said on the line, that Keith hadn’t yet earned what air he’d been so graciously given, and needed another lesson on what it meant to be humble.

So Shiro squeezes. “Check the security footage,” he says, following the flush of color that stains Keith’s cheeks. “Each site is riddled with cameras. If at any point the gate was tampered with, we would’ve caught it on video.”

“Would you have caught this?” Keith threw up a finger, the beginnings of a grin sneaking a snide humor into his expression, but all cheekiness is lost in his gape, drowned out by the silencing throttle, and even though he can’t form the words quite right, he still manages a smug look of defiance that would rival hundreds before him.

Really, it’s impressive.

Even _if_ it doesn’t phase Shiro the way he wants it to; doesn’t even come close to the end result Keith is digging for. Which means he’s practically forced to change tactics then. Pull out the big guns and see where brute force got him.

Keith swallowed thickly, thrilled for once when his adam’s apple didn’t budge, and bore down on the thick intrusion pulsing hot within his pierced walls. Shiro’s eyes, if possible, darken further, and his voice has to go down at least three decibels more when he grates, “Sorry, Antok,” with an unconscious lick of his lips. “What was that?” 

Keith flashed a haughty grin, face flushed bright with exertion and less than adequate oxygen, and Shiro must see the tinge of creeping purple in his coloring because he suddenly lets up. Doesn’t let go, but keeps his fingers gentle and palm distant so Keith can suck in as much air as his greedy lungs can hold in the short reprieve he’s given.

Though he loses it all pretty quickly when Shiro drills his hips forward.

Keith cries out, keening so prettily at that, and arches up into Shiro like a man possessed. Moaning, whimpering, wanting everything and _more_ whenShiro finally fucked him like he meant it.

Fucked him like he was  _hated_.

And there’s a good chance he was, but Keith doesn’t have the mind to stop and beg for forgiveness. Not when Shiro’s so deep inside him that his thoughts become a useless blur, the world around him practically smearing out of focus, and throwing his entire being off kilter as each and every ruthless thrust sent his eyes rolling and hands scrabbling for stability.

“God,” Shiro grunts, voice velvet and all consuming, and Keith isn’t sure who it is he’s talking to at that moment, but just the wrecked pitch of his voice makes fire erupt low in his gut. Lick up into the caverns of his quivering rib cage and mellow into that of a sweet heat that sloshes warm inside his veins and raises his body temperature to an unsafe degree.

Keith melts into him, fingers splayed in search of something familiar; something metal. Shiro’s hand isn’t nearly as cold as it could be having been warmed against Keith’s throat for the better part of the past hour. But he wonders, through the drunken haze of his syrupy thoughts, if Shiro can can feel _his_ warmth where he touches him. Where his fingers circle at the wrist of his prosthetic and hold as a means to feel more connected than they already are.

It’s such a subtle act of intimacy that Shiro loses some of his gusto, his expression immediately going soft around the edges as he slowed in his dismantling, caressed down the slack of Keith’s jaw and leaned in to kiss him. _Really_ kiss him. Not some quick peck to preserve their decency from whoever was on the other end of the line, but something deep and meaningful, with tongue and teeth alike.

A kiss full of intrigue.

Their actions come with a new perspective in their own right now that Keith had seen just how Shiro could be with someone that wasn’t _him._  Every touch was a means of observation, of fickle comparison because he’s sure that when Shiro holds him, it’s nothing like the way he’d held Lance the day before. And he’s sure that when Shiro fucks him, eyes dark and brows furrowed, that there’s a forcefulness and desperation to it that’s unlike the gentled manner that had loved Lance into a soft and quivery thing, so sweet on praise, that Shiro had indulged him eagerly. Had done it like it was all he’d ever wanted to do.

The tamed fire undulating in Keith’s gut smokes out, fanning his organs in a choking plume that has his throat working and eyes flashing up in search of looming salvation. Because he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t acutely aware of what Lance had to offer. Of the properties he’d fallen in love with, and the ones Shiro could just as equally, if not _more_ , given the things he’d seen and the life he’d lived. Jealousy wasn’t quite the term for it, but fear. Now fear is what makes him _sink_. Makes him whimper something wounded and utterly ashamed for thinking such a thing when Shiro was looking down at him. _Touching_ him.

The man loses placement in his listening; finds a trace of something not quite unsettled, but openly vulnerable in Keith’s eyes as he flinched away. Tried to hold his own.

But one day, Shiro would retire from his position. Step down and let the newer generations take over, and all that’d be left to look forward to would be painful memories and Keith. Keith, with his equally tortured past and his inability to give Shiro a taste of hope for the new chapters in life that didn’t revolve around death and drugs and violence. They’d be locked in a routine. Frozen in time.

Which is why there were times like this that Keith had started to think he was nothing but a dead end for Shiro. Something to be resented in the near future. He’d frown. Ache. _Yearn_ for Shiro in the ways that he’d always done because no matter how hard Keith tried, it was the same thing every time. 

The people he loved left.

They always did.

But then Shiro would look at him. Breathe some stupid shit like, “God, look at _you_ ,” and Keith would remember all the times that Shiro had  _stayed_. _For_ him.

Keith wasn’t Lance. He wasn’t someone capable of getting Shiro out of his comfort zone, and giving that taste of what could be if Shiro ever left the underworld. But Keith was still his life partner; in or out of crime.

Keith was Shiro’s  _home_.

And when Shiro fucks him, with eyes tender and his soul bared, he does so like Keith’s the only love he’s ever known in this fucked up world of theirs—the fucking _sap_.

“I love you.”

Keith dissolves into a puddle of soft cries, his head, light, but body weighted as Shiro grabbed at his phone, distancing themselves with his reach, and used the grip he had on Keith’s throat to angle his mouth so he could own the man like he wanted. Show Keith something great.

They break apart gasping. Heaving. Shiro, a mask of pure concentration as he reared back, phone balanced against his shoulder once again, and used his once occupied hand to hike Keith’s leg up and spread him wide; spread him agape.

The new position makes Keith tremble, arms giving out under his weight as he collapsed back in Shiro’s still active grip, and tried to suck air around the welcomed press of his palm. It’s nothing close to how Shiro usually handles him, but the change in angle makes up for the cautions pace as Shiro fucks him gingerly.

Each thrust drives in deeper and deeper, mixing up a cocktail of pain and pleasure that has Keith tossing his head as much as Shiro’s grip will let him, and falling apart around the taunting fullness that sets his nerves alight with something feverish. Keith was out of his damn mind with want, Shiro’s jaw clenching some with the display, and his gaze was unabashedly caught in Keith’s own dopey stare as he panted raggedly and rutted into Keith with waning restraint. Held off on the untapped desire that threatened to ruin them both.

Because Keith was mewling, practically _gone_ tothefeel of Shiro’s cock dragging rough at his insides, and the gradual increase in power spurred a heavy jolt from his own dick as it rubbed, trapped between their bellies, and wept. So he amps up his cries then, almost _wanting_ Shiro to find another reason to shut him up, but the man holds his pace, and, if possible, manages to find an even deeper angle that has Keith clawing at the sheets and cursing on a whine; lest he try to hold it in and rupture a blood vessel.

“What makes you think there was forced entry?” Shiro grit, still intent on finishing the conversation, and _Keith_ , if he could help it. “What other signs were there?”

That’s desperation. Desperation in the haste of Shiro’s movements and the tone of his voice as he released Keith’s throat, and trailed those metal digits down along the concave of Keith quivering stomach, to where it mattered most. Still, he doesn’t touch, but the promise is there. If Keith could wait. If he could—

“Similar situations have happened up in Cascade after the end of the rainy seasons, Antok. Chains give. Metal rusts.”

Keith gasped, a garbled and choked thing, and he palmed at Shiro’s knees desperately, begging. Pleading. Doing everything he’d never do if it were anyone else. Because this was, “ _Shiro_ ,” Keith moaned. “Shiro, Shiro, _please—_ ”

The pitched ‘fuck me’ is implied, and Shiro doesn’t need a helping hand to understand this because he hushed him, _I know baby, I know,_ went on with the necessary social cues to appease the voice— _Antok,_ Keith now realizes—who's on the other end of the line.

And if that isn’t the most maddening thing.

Shiro releases Keith’s leg to give himself the much needed freedom to plant both his hands flat beside Keith’s head and use the leverage to support his upper body as he nestled close. Sank a canine into the pillow of his lower lip, and gave Keith the necessary time he needed to grab two fistfuls of their ruined sheets, before Shiro was drilling his hips forward, rocking Keith half up the length of the mattress and pounding into him in wild abandon.

“Oh, _fuck_!” Keith twisted, back arching up into the expanse of Shiro’s chest as the man finally released a shaky gasp and immediately stilled at the concerned pitch trickling through the speaker.

Shiro swallowed thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing under the pressure. And he tried to keep his composure as he fucked up into Keith, sinking into the velvety heat of his love and gasping again when the tightening of his core _burned_. “I’m fine,” he quaked. “Everything is—” Shiro grunted. “It’s perfectly fine, Antok. I just— _Keith_ just stubbed his toe on the bedframe.” Shiro grimaced; self-aware. “I’m listening.”

Really, he’s not.

There’s no preamble this time around. Shiro presses his lips into a hard line of concentration and prays to a God he doesn’t  even believe in to save him the embarrassment of a detailed explanation should they be found out. Keith, on the other hand, was stuck debating, trying to reason if it’d be worth it to clap a hand over his mouth or hope that the receiver was just far enough that it wouldn’t pick up on his sharp gasps as his cock jerked eagerly against his already tarnished stomach.

His gut was tightening, an all engulfing flame building in the strain of his hips and the curl of his toes. He’s not sure how much longer he can hold out like this, and it looked as though Shiro was struggling to limit his ever-growing sounds of pleasure as well because there’s a slip of a grunt here, a not-so-subtle groan there. Pretty soon it’d be the equivalent to an audio clip of a porno as Shiro singlehandedly pushed them towards the brink of release. And both of them knew they’d rather die than let an underling know the true extent of their private life.

So Shiro hummed, an expected sound of understanding, and he allowed only the faintest of, “ _Ah’s_ ,” to follow in hopes it’d be taken as a voice of understanding. But the need is growing faster than Shiro can get a handle on it, and Keith knows he isn’t exactly helping with the debauched way he’s writhing. Whorish and needy as Shiro pounded him into oblivion and grazed at his innermost parts that sent Keith dissolving into a puddle of mindless babbling.

“W-where did,” Shiro stutters, _coughs_. Tries again, this time slower. But when he achieves damn near the same result, eyes rolling with the feel of Keith’s walls around him, he all but rips the phone away with an impatient snarl.

“Give me a second, Antok,” he calls mindlessly; has the mind to hit the mute button before hurling the device somewhere in the sheets and dragging Keith closer.

Here, he can feel the frantic thump of Shiro’s heart as the man curled over him, dropping his weight low and gathering him up in his arms when the need overwhelms him. It’s up close and personal, and Keith tries to fold into Shiro as effortlessly as he can manage before his lips were grazing the shell of the man’s ear and he was breathing a weakened, “Fuck me, ‘Kashi,” that has Shiro’s unyielding resolve shattering.

He goes feral.

Two hands, one at the base of Keith’s spine and the other wound tight in the length of his hair, pull him up and pull him down as he bared his throat submissively and moaned when his cock was caught sandwiched between their abdomens. He thinks it’s a good thing, loses why exactly when Shiro fucks him deep and hard and _fast_. The sheer force of his thighs engraving harsh dents in the drywall as the bed frame slammed back and scuffed the paint. And Keith jolts with it, nails dragging harsh line of pleasure up the flex of Shiro’s shoulder blades as a scream ripped itself from his throat and he thrashed, “ _Fuck_!” Frantically worked his hands up through Shiro’s hair to  _pull_. “ _Fuck yes,_ Shiro, I’m—Fuck! Fuck, fuck— _Ahn!_ ”

Shiro moaned fondly, his pleasure a wet heat at Keith’s jugular as he drove himself harder. Chased his own release with encouraging sounds in the back of his throat that had Keith cutting tracks into Lance’s earlier ones. “That’s it,” Shiro rasps. “That’s it, baby, come on. You’ve been so good for me. Taking my cock so well, Keith. You’re beautiful. Perfect.  _Mine_ _._ ”

Keith gasped, “ _Yes_ ,” the word punched out and  _wrecked_ as he moaned _,_ “ _Yes_ , Shiro,  _please_. Please _,_ I—”

“Say it, Keith. Tell me what you need.”

“I need you.”

“Tell me what you want. _”_

“ _You,_ Shiro, _fuck_!Fuck _,_ fuck—please. _Please_ , Shiro. _Fuck_ me— _ah_! _”_

Keith threw his head back, lips parted on a near silent scream, and he used Shiro’s startled lapse in movement to hook his arms around the man’s neck and kiss a secret into his pulse point. Hides the words in the man’s bloodstream so he can save them for a later, more appropriate time.

Until then, Keith would keep them to himself. Let Shiro say it for the both of them as they writhed together and groaned. Twin voices of pleasure bleeding soft into the slide of their tongues as the grunts and moans and whines grew symphonic over the harsh knock of the bed frame.

 _Pornagraphic,_ Keith thinks with a smile.

Shiro just groans, “Jesus, Keith,” and ducks his head down to worry at the flushed line of his throat as he rut against Keith furiously. Hips creating a sloppy _slap,_ _slap_ , _slap_ of noise that lights Keith’s thighs up in a pretty flush under the contact. “You gonna come for me?” Shiro gasps.

And Keith nods frantically, eyes locked on Shiro’s own as he dropped his arms from his neck and, instead, focused his grip around the tense muscles of Shiro’s forearms. His nails dig. Tunnel vision making Shiro his one and only focus as the man waited for the perfect moment to bring it all to a head. And he finds it just seconds later, in the curl of Keith’s toes and the shiver that crashes up over his thighs as he growled, “Come, then.”

And Keith does.

Shiro gripped him tight, hand already slick with lube and spit and God knows what else, as he jerked him once, twice, thumbed the head of his cock and sent Keith hurtling over the edge with a broken moan that pitched high and thready as he spilled himself over Shiro’s fingers. _Five_ metal fingers that work him through the lingering aftershocks, and encourage him to hold out just a little longer before Shiro was arching into him, every muscle in his body going taut, and then snapping loose as he came on a reverberating shiver. Drove every molten spurt of ecstasy through the fluttering walls of Keith’s insides and laid claim to him in the most animalistic of ways.

It’s everything and nothing at once. Sensory overload and a white out of feeling until there was nothing left to focus on but the combined thrum of their hearts beating in tandem.

Shiro sags heavily against him, mouthing sweet words of praise along the flutter of Keith’s pulse point and venturing down. Over his collarbone and over his shoulder where he nips; a savage thing that Keith craves. The pain catches him off guard more than it does actually hurts; diluted under the raw wave of affection that Keith feels when Shiro tongues at the mark remorsefully and kisses the overlay of blooming color with a soft sound of regret. And Shiro tries to ease the added discomfort with a gentle brush of his lips, hips moving lazily against him as Shiro ground those last throbbing jolts of pleasure as far as he could reach and finally, _finally,_ collapsed on top of Keith with a winded exhale.

“ _Fuck_.”

Keith let out a laugh. There was definitely something funny in the way Shiro lost composure as he laced his fingers through metal mimicry, and pressed a lingering kiss to Shiro’s damp temple with a soft, content, sigh while the heat dropped to a distant simmer.  

Eventually settled.

Nosing through the heady film of sex, no doubt caked on them in _layers_ takes some time, but Keith eventually finds what it is he’s looking for in the short length of hair cut sharp around Shiro’s ear. A familiar musky pine that he hums happily into when it makes itself known. Soothes him.

Keith takes advantage of the use of his free hand to ease down the jump of Shiro’s flanks, fingers tracing over the distinct jut of his rib cage and down along the crease of his spine. And when Shiro lifts his head, white tufts a tousled mess about his forehead, Keith could swear he falls in love with him all over again.

“I know I’ve said this a million times before but, I fucking _love_ your arm, Takashi.” Keith smirks, his voice scratchy and raw and so damn complimentary, that Shiro can’t help but blush some as he finished dragging himself up on a supportive arm and looked down at Keith with a hint of distress.

“Did I hurt you?” He murmured, fingers hovering over the matching handprint now temporarily engraved in Keith’s skin. And he bit his lip with a sad look, eyes sparking with anguish when the color only seemed to darken. “I should’ve stopped.”

“I didn’t want you to,” Keith argued. “You were perfect, Shiro. Fuckin’ amazing is what you were.”

Keith stretched out cat-like and lazy, looking the definition of sinful covered in his own spend and Shiro’s as he looked up from the dark curtain of his lashes. His lips curl something mischievous, already on a fast track to easing Shiro’s earlier concerns, but there’s real, honest intent behind the transition of his actions when he leans up to pull Shiro in and slot their mouths together.

The kiss is sweet, caramelized in the earlier fire, and the sloppiness of it all makes them snicker in faux disgust as they tried to see just how obnoxious they could make it. With tongues sliding and teeth clicking. Their eyes open to sneak passing smiles, and Keith feels a sense of genuineness to it as he watched the tension drain from Shiro on a low chuckle that warmed Keith from the inside out.

“I’m glad,” Shiro breathes when Keith is willing to let him go. “You looked amazing.”

The praise presses warm along the bruising thumbprint making a dark debut up the curve of Keith’s throat, and he can’t help but hum back drowsily, “How do I look now?” Keith quirked a brow in waiting anticipation, and Shiro leaned back, examining the skin a little more closely, before he clucked his tongue with a low whistle.

“Like you have quite the possessive lover,” Shiro admonished. “What kind of _beast..._ ”

Keith snorted. Slapped a hand over his mouth to hide the sound when Shiro’s eyes lit up  something marvelesque and teasing. And he scowled, “You’re lucky I love you, Shirogane. _Real_ fuckin’ lucky,” that falls flat as a threat.

Because Shiro grinned back dopily, “Oh, I’m feelin’ the luck, babe,” and Keith takes that as his opportunity to kiss away what lingering note of exhaustion had decidedly come between them. He makes quick work of the second wind. It wasn’t often that they went this long without some sort of harassment, and God knew they wouldn’t be getting in one another’s pants until they got their hands on Lance.

So Keith shifted, the bed frame yelping at the sudden dip in weight, and Shiro matched the noise with a sharp hiss of sensitivity as he slipped free of Keith’s warmth and hit wet against his inner thigh.

“What are you—”

“Shut up,” Keith ordered.

It takes a lot of energy, none of which Keith has at the moment, to get his hands up and under him, but he manages nonetheless. His arms are weak, legs more than fatigued, and he relies on his elbows more than he’d like to admit as he struggled up onto his abused ass, pressed the flat of his foot to Shiro’s sternum, and sent the man toppling back with a winded, _oomph,_ thatgave Keith the opening he needed to bully his way into the vulnerable lap and mount him with a sly grin.

Shiro makes a highly intrigued sound deep in his throat. “I’m really liking this progression,” he declared hoarsely, eyes tracking the corded movement of Keith’s thighs.

And Keith has it in himself to bark out another laugh, pleased to see a smile chasing away Shiro’s earlier concern, before he was surging down to claim him with a renewed sort of vigor. Hands chase, and a new heat formulates within the close proximity of their bodies as a darting tongue curled slick around Keith’s own a _laved_. Explored deep along his upper palate and licked at the velvet soft cushion of Keith’s swollen lips expertly.

Shiro devours him completely, fingers sailing up along Keith’s sides and stopping only to appreciate the yearning tremble of anticipation that flexed under the planes of his abdominals and lit his eyes up something lustful. Then he roamed back up. Up through a scattering of scars and over years of shared history as the muscles tensed at the contact, and eased into a shiver of familiarity that leaned into the contact.

Keith thumbed at Shiro’s morning stubble in turn, a soft moan blending into a low purr of approval that erupted deep within Shiro’s chest as he cupped at Keith’s ass roughly. Fingers kneading, others prodding, and using the handhold to direct a purposeful roll of Keith’s hips that had him leaking what earlier spend had yet to trickle down the length of his splayed thighs.

_So much for saving it._

The visual is raw in provocation, one that has Shiro’s nails digging, his cock stirring, and Keith welcoming the rough feel of Shiro’s palm, the other a smooth warmth, as they slid up the flat of his belly, and eased down along the curves of his legs with an unconscious lick of his lips.

“Having fun up there?” Shiro asks.

And Keith laughs, a sound deep and weighted in his gut, as he leaned in to press another fleeting kiss to the line of Shiro’s scar and whisper, “Always.”

Fingers tickle up under the preserving layer of cotton that had gotten caught up on Keith’s ankle, the digits shoving back and down the curved swell of his ass, and Shiro assisted Keith in his grinding as he pushed back into the line of the man’s half-hard dick and hissed at the impatient nip to his jugular for his effort. The rhythmic pulse stuttered, pressed strong against Keith’s canine after a precious moment of control, and he suckled at the yield in flesh just to feel it trip up again before eventually pulling away.

“We should probably get cleaned up,” Shiro suggested suddenly, lips parting along Keith’s with a quiet moan before he was moving to extract himself. Or, at least, trying his best to. “Antok seemed pretty energetic on the phone. Something about a break in.”

“So what?” Keith panted, his complaints not lost to the breathy sound as he kissed up along the flush of Shiro’s scar, and down to his defiant lips as a means of incentive. “The only thing up there worth stealing is a fucking cement base and some spare bags of mixing sand. It can wait.”

“It can wait, or you _can’t_.” Shiro tightened his grip and held Keith still. “Tedious or not, we have jobs to do. Not to mention our noticeable absence these past two days.”

“Lances fault. Not mine,” Keith reminded him, though not with any real bite. Still, Shiro flashed him an unimpressed look and traced idle circles into the soft give of Keith’s upper thighs.

“It’s _Lances_ fault that we’ve been able to do any of this right now,” Shiro pointed out. “Which is why we should stop while we’re ahead and handle whatever it is Antok is on about, so that we can have a work free weekend helping Lance with his interviews. Agreed?”

Keith doesn’t, but Shiro takes his poutful grunt as a sign of victory anyway as he let out a throaty chuckle; pressed an apology to Keith’s jutted lip soon after and assured him, “It’ll be quick,” he murmured. “Promise.”

But nothing work related ever was. Especially when Antok was part of the equation. So Keith tried, “I can be quick, too,” with a seductive purr that he knew worked wonders on Lance, but only served to get Shiro to laugh at him again.

It’s his loss.

Dammit.

Shiro kissed Keith with another warm smile, his hands touching their apology along the put out slump of the man’s shoulders, and Shiro did his best to make it up to him with an overindulgent kiss.

One that’s not nearly as rushed or heated as it could be, as it could’ve _been_ , but Shiro seems far too content to do anything more than he already was. So Keith resignes himself to the vanilla, sagging into the ever-growing rain of affection the befalls him when he did so, and obliges every one of Shiro’s leisurely wants as he reveled in their lingering downtime.

What little they had left.

Because a fist pounds at their bedroom door, three consecutive knocks coming back-to-back-to-back that have Keith jolting against Shiro’s chest, and rearing up to stare at the sturdy cuts of wood trembling audibly from the pressure. A stretch of silence follows, and Keith chooses to fill it with an audible groan of reluctance as he extracted himself from Shiro begrudgingly and donned a cutting glare.

“ **Yeah!** ” Keith barked.

Shiro’s frantic sounds of protests and scramble to look decent went ignored as Antok’s rapidly advancing footsteps approached quick and cut off at a clambering halt with an—

“Oh, for the love of _fuck_ , Kogane!”

Antok took an uncoordinated step back, palm shielded over his eyes in a last ditch effort to unsee what was already engraved in his retinas, and Shiro did the same with his forearm as he burned bright pink and begged Keith to _get out of his lap_.

But Keith just scoffed, “Relax,” and gestured loosely to the body below him. “His dick is tucked away if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Antok glowered. “That’s  _not_ what I’m worried about.” 

The soldiers face had gone scarlet, equal parts embarrassment and manifesting anger as he slapped a hand to his eyes again, having forgotten to take cover in his outburst, and grimaced at the imagery created by the Shiro’s following groan.

“For the love of _God_ , Antok. What _is it_ ,” Shiro stressed impatiently, and that, at least, got the soldier somewhat functioning again.

Antok dropped his hand to his side, still not entirely pleased to meet Keith’s shit eating grin and rose colored ass, but he took a couple of steps forward despite the factor of intimidation and was quick to clear his throat.

“Kolivan located a body just off our A day pick up route this morning near the Northern line.” A cautious beat. “It’s fresh.”

Shiro tensed below him, “One of ours?”

And Antok made a face. “One of _nobody’s_ ,” he explained. “He’s civilian. A local. If I were to guess, maybe even a college student. Kolivan checked for affiliation, but the kid is clean. We think it’s some sort of...call out.”

“A call out?” Keith echoed in bewilderment. “Over what?”

Keith startled at the sudden tip in his balance, Shiro’s hands just as gentle as they had been despite the urgency in his voice, before he was handling Keith off to the side and making his way towards the edge of the bed. He tugged at his discarded sweats, eyes already losing themselves in the possibility of a set-up, and Keith could only mourn the loss of his partner for so long before he too, let himself get taken.

He rolled, moving his weight until his feet hit the floor, awkward in it’s twist, but allowing him to shift back some as he made a conscious effort to stay out of Shiro’s way while Antok relayed the rest of the news with as much detail as the short time would allow him.

“Kolivan wouldn’t go into details but, he told me it was imperative I get you two to the sight as soon as possible. Said it might have something to do with your extracurricular activities as of late.” Antok’s expression pinched, as if it were taking every last brain cell to recall Kolivan’s reasoning verbatim without leaving out any pieces that were important.

Any other time Keith would call the soldier on it. Needle at the man’s short temper as a means to kill time before they really had to fall back into old habits, but there’s a dawn of realization that hits him long before it does Shiro.

And when he ask, “Did you say, _he?_ ”

The pieces suddenly click.

Keith snapped his gaze over at where Shiro had gone rigid at his wrist button, grey eyes fixed and processing what little there was to draw on, before he was coming back into focus with an unreadable look that had Keith that much more alarmed. That much more _hopeless_.

Because if what had immediately come to mind for Keith had done so in the same manner for Shiro, there wasn’t much wiggle room for reasonable doubt.

The outcome was practically inevitable.

Keith was up and moving, dressing as quickly as his stiff joints would allow him as Antok tried to get a decent enough description of the victim. They needed age, they needed ethnicity, tell us what the boy _looked_ like, Antok.

“I-I don’t know all of the details either, Kogane,” Antok sputtered defensively. “Kolivan told me to come and alert you two personally after I stepped onto the scene. Said he needed the both of you down there to help manage clean up before the news gets ahold of it.”

“Then why don’t you figure it out?” Keith snapped. “Call Kolivan, call Thace, call whoever the _fuck_ you need to to get an accurate description for me, because right now—”

“Keith.”

Violet clashed with grey, a strike of power struggle. But Keith felt his bloodlust curb when Shiro coaxed him down with a calming palm and hard look that had him backing off. Nowhere near compliant, though.

“Tell Kolivan we’ll be there in thirty,” Shiro said, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt steadily as he stepped in to take over what Keith would inevitably escalate. “I want the area blocked off and secure until then. If that can’t be done, narrow the site, start crowd control, and keep it contained until the place is cleared. Any witnesses need to be handled by Regris and Regris _only_. The sooner we get him in route, the quicker that can be dealt with. Tell him to feed them an excuse. Roll neighborhood violence, a robbery gone wrong, I don’t give a fuck as long as we get them off the streets. Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Antok assured.

And Shiro nodded, “Good,” before shooting a look towards the door. “Go handle it, then.”

Case closed.

Keith watched Antok bow his head, a quick show of respect, before taking his leave far quieter than he’d come. He lets the door swing shut behind him, effectively narrowing the blast radius, and Keith doesn’t even think to take cover as he reached out; molded his palm over the tension in Shiro’s shoulder and kept pressure on the detonation. 

“I’m gonna kill them,” Shiro swore calmly.

Keith didn’t doubt he would.

 

.   .   .

 

Before there was a pizza parlor between Stark St. and Burnside, there had been an old fashioned diner by the name of ‘Luna’s Cafe & Lounge’ that was located just off of Pike St. and Pine in one of the nicest areas of the Central District. It’s working atmosphere was archaic, the infrastructure, even more so, but the parking had been cheap. The coffee; hot. And the head waitress seemed to have taken a quite a liking to Hunk and him after what they considered to be a hefty tip, and some good, quality conversation, that counted more as ventful complaining than it did anything else.

Though that wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for them at the time.

Late nights back then had always started at Luna’s. Back when Hunk and him spent what little free time they had, trying to come up with a budget item that hit all the particular notes that their journalism 410 professor had a tendency to nit-pick.

Even on a rough draft.

Hunk would inevitably start drinking straight from the coffee pot, much to the owners rampant displeasure, and Lance would be going on his third cup of apple cider that was to be heated to the point of scalding, so that when the burn hit his sensitive esophagus, it would be enough to kick start his sleep deprived brain.

“I feel like I should put a stop to this,” their waitress at the time had admitted once, somewhere between Lance’s last wail of agony and Hunk’s chug worthy display. She was a lovely young woman with the beautiful name, Rosa, who’d spent the last part of their first quarter, and well into their second, working full time in order to prepare for a newborn currently on the way.

And you’d think that after months of their nightly antics, never a dull moment to go by when they were in effect, she would have gotten sick of their presence by then, but she’d always said having them around was good practice. A little insight on what it was like being a mother.

She’d pet a hand through Hunk’s hair when he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, offer up a platter of cinnamon rolls free of charge when they hadn’t eaten for over four hours, and she’d sometimes be the one to press re-submit on a newly finished file when Lance had practically dissolved into a crying mess of failure—because how the _fuck_ hadhe not seen that typo when he was going through editing?

She looked out for them. Gave them a shoulder to cry on when things got tough.

Back when the good ol’ days were just regular days when all they had to worry about were flimsy, no-sweat deadlines, and generous pass/fail courses.

Not the possibility of being murdered or getting life without parol.

“Man, I really miss that place,” Hunk muttered; the miserable statement caught up in the meaty swipe of his palm as he chose to forgo his napkin and instead, used manpower to clean the line of grease dribbling out from the edge of his burger. Allura made a sound of disgust deep in her throat beside him, but didn’t seem to be doing any better as a matching streak of oil went skidding down her cheeks and painted her dark skin in a charcoal dotted trail. 

Lance gets up to get them both napkins.

“What ever happened to it?” He asks when he sits back down, genuinely curious now that they were talking about it. Last he heard, a lot of the buildings down in the Central District had been bought out.

“For townhouses, I think,” Hunk nodded. “Or something equally stupid as that.” He waved a hand around, flicking grease about their table, and a sharp sound of apology hissed out between his teeth when Allura’s eyes darkened  murderously and her lips curled back. “Either way,” he coughed. “It’s a loss. Their food was amazing.”

“ _And_ they had character,” Lance mused.

“Two of which, I’m beginning to think this establishment _lacks._ ” Allura dropped her mess of meat disdainfully. “What kind of person feels compelled to put this much bacon between bread? Are two slices not enough?”

Lance scoffed in his scavenging for her onions, and shrugged, “It’s America,” the obvious laid out in such a statement. “What did you honestly expect?”

“Class,” Allura snarled, and Hunk and him placated by pushing their fries her way with a chiding, “ _Easy_ ,” that had Allura looking less fearsome enough that Lance felt safe bumping their shoulders together. “We’re just teasing,” he joked. Winced Hunk’s way. “Sort of. But I think it’s safe to say we’ve had enough carnage for one afternoon, am I right?”

Hunk hummed his agreement, cheeks swollen around a mouthful, and he wagged a finger in Lances direction, “Speaking of,” before he swallowed. “Have you called Pidge yet?”

Ooph.

Now that—

 _That_ was a funny story because you see, Lance had just started to realize, that for someone who’d just spent the past couple of months suffering through the worst of what his career had to offer, he’d done quite a good job rolling with the punches.

Takashi and Keith, like a trainers bark; _one, two_ , _one_ , _two_ , that had come at him as a surprising, but not _entirely_ , unwelcome first round— _ding_ , _ding_ , _ding!_ —and had Lance bracing himself for them with arms— _and legs—_ loose and ready for impact.

Thank you _so_ very much for that additional clarification, _Allura_.

Lance had not only weathered the worst of what some medical professionals would call, ‘a debilitating concussion’, but he did so in the face of a deranged lunatic who had done quite the job impersonating that of a justice driven homicide detective, and was seemingly intent on destroying anything and everything Lance had ever known and loved.

Not to mention how he was actively putting together what was rapidly becoming a million piece puzzle set, one that had been so kindly gifted to him, by a boss whose impatience rivaled that of an energetic toddler, and Lance was persevering through it all with only one meltdown to show for it when really, he should’ve been gifted two at this point.

Right?

So if you could just...try to understand, and give him the benefit of the doubt, then he’d make a conscious effort to reveal the shit-storm of character development that happened approximately twenty-five minutes earlier, but surely felt weeks longer to the lovely readers just now getting their hands on this at home.

Okay?

Okay.

The last thing Lance wanted to do was rehash—correction— _re-enact_ whatever it was that had twisted his usual portrayal into something vile and unhinged; never to be seen again if he could at all help it. But given Lance was in the process of going down his internal checklist of ‘Things That Should’ve Sent Me Packing and/or in an Ambulance on My Way to the Morgue’, it was only logical he mention the whole ordeal in passing to provide the necessary refreshment that would kick everyone’s working memory into high gear. Get those cogs turning before you skimmed carelessly and missed something vital.

Like the fact that Lance was _intentionally_ avoiding Pidge. 

No need to go back, you read that right.

Lance was intentionally avoiding Pidge, and he was doing so because he had worked too damn hard constructing a safe space for the girl to have everything come crashing down now. Because even at his worst, _prior_ to today’s worst, Lance had made a conscious effort to make sure Katie didn’t see the effects this case was having on him. 

He sheltered her.

Which meant, the day that Keith and Takashi had first ditched him, left him ass naked on a pull-out-bed covered in poorly toweled cum and a discarded turtleneck? Lance had walked through his front door without a frown to show for it and promptly asked what the teen had wanted for breakfast.

Nothing more, nothing less.

And after what had to be at least four lengthy maple bars, and an apple fritter split between them—because contrary to popular belief, Lance knew how to incorporate fruit into their shitty diet—he’d left Pidge to her own devices before carefully, and quietly, locking himself in his bathroom to let the heavy patter of the overhead spray wash any source of his slighted tears quickly down the drain.

Pidge needed _stability_ , now more than ever. She needed the reassurance that Lance could handle half her burden and  _more_ , and do so without crumbling under the pressure when shit got rough. The second she suspected Lance was no longer fit to do what it was he was doing to help her _;_  the resulting guilt would swallow the girl whole.

She’d already lost her brother.

“She’s not going to risk losing me.”

Simple as that.

Lance palmed his eye sockets, hoping just this once, it’d be enough to get the circulation going as he let out a heavy sigh and tried to convince himself more than he was convincing the others. Because, “What Pidge doesn’t know won’t hurt her. That’s why I haven’t called.”

“But you texted her, at least,” Allura asked, and when Lance nodded a bit, that got Hunk to relax.

“I honestly just didn’t think I’d be able to hold my nerve if I heard her voice,” he admitted, “If she’d cried...” _God_ , if Pidge had cried. “It would’ve been over.”

He would’ve caved.

“Guess you dodged a bullet, then,” Hunk chirped suddenly, his fingers drumming against the edge of the table in good fun. “I mean, she was definitely going to cuss you out first, but yeah. Full hysterics were in order,” he said knowingly. Then, a bit more sympathetically, added, “She was really worried about you.” 

And she still was, from the sounds of it.

Lance had let Pidge’s initial call after texting her go to voicemail, already made up in his mind that speaking would be a definite no-go given his current circumstances. She’d been pissed, sure. And Hunk had been right about the cussing part. But anger had quickly dissolved into overwhelming worry, and Lance had done his best to ease her concerns with as many exclamation points and repetitions as he could.

 

**Lance: 2:20 PM**

_I’m serious, Katie. I’ll tell you everything once I know you’re okay to come home, alright? Am I forgiven? Wilt thou forgive me?_

 

**Pidgeon: 2:23 PM**

_Let me come home and I’ll consider it, dickhead. And you better call me, later. OK?_

 

Lance had sent her a thumbs up along with a picture of his marled shirt, and worked hard at his facade until he truly felt Pidge believed he was fine.

Because sometimes those half-truths? They protected more than himself...

“So what is it you’ve decided to do now?” Allura dipped a french fry into his messy portion of ranch and waved it about much like Hunk had done. “You have another interview this weekend, yes?”

“More like a hot date,” Hunk interjected, and when Lance shot him a look, one of sharp betrayal and future vengeance, the man wilted under its pressure as Allura turned to stare between them in question.

“It’s _not_ a date,” Lance argued defensively, but Hunk just shook his head, _no, no, no, man_ , and stretched back in his seat.

“It’s totally a date when the interview is the last thing on your mind,” Hunk snitched. “Did you know he cleared them this morning?” Allura’s eyes bugged, and Hunk returned it with a, _shit_ _you_ _not,_ sort of look that had Lance flushing as the man nodded, “Yup,” And popped the ‘p’. “Said he was going to back off them  _both_.”

Lance threw his arms back. “I said, for the time _being,_  Hunk. How many times do I have to tell you assholes it’s not _like_ that.”

Hunk cocked a brow, “Really?”, disbelief ever evident in his tone of voice, and Lance nodded, “Really,” with as much resolution as he could manage while the lie wriggled about his throat.

“Really, really?”

” _Yes_ , Allura, _God_. Do you guys get off on this?” Lance fixed a sulk down at the table, flushing bright under the twin sounds of laughter that spilt over him. And it’s Allura that places a hand at his forearm, cooing gentle sounds of apology until they sobered enough to be serious.

“So, they’re witnesses, then?” Allura asked. “Not quite suspects, but not really innocent?”

And Lance deflated, tossed his head into his hands and muttered, “Not innocent at all, really,” with a grimace. “They had a roll in Matt’s disappearance, I’m not writing that off. But from what I got out of Sendak last night, it’s an indirect involvement. There’s something bigger.”

Something he was missing.

Lance rapped his knuckles against the table, decided, and said, “I’m going to bring it up tomorrow.”

Hunk hacked, Allura’s brows jumping soon after, and both of them bombard him with a rushed chaos of disapproval so loud, that tables around them turned to take quick interest in disrupted curiosity.

Hunk blanches, “Are you _insane_?” 

And Allura smiles, “Lance, love,” though it’s full of more concern than anything else. “You know I think you’re an amazing journalist, and I am always going to support you in everything that you do, but I can’t help but agree with Hunk on this. That’s suicide.”

“Not if I spin it,” Lance said confidently.

Because Sendak’s first real mistake was letting Lance see his true colors. The absolute _hatred_ he had for him, not just for what he’d done in his conquest to help Pidge, but for the illusion Sendak had constructed that somehow affiliated Lance with Keith and Shiro in a way that wasn’t anywhere near their actual current arrangement.

If someone could be that close to snapping, just over an itty-bitty hunch, then Lance had no doubt Sendak had made his presence known to Keith or Shiro at some point in their lifetime.

That hostility went way too deep for that.

So if Lance came clean, was honest and up front and _told_  them he’d been arrested; for unknown reasons, of course—there’s that half truth—Keith and Shiro would be under the impression it was due to their involvement with him, and ultimately vice versa, than suspect anything else. He would look innocent. Play ignorance so he could finally ask about Matt and not look suspicious. Lance could lie and say Sendak had brought it during his interrogation, grilled him about information he didn’t know, and hope the conviction would scare them enough that’d they’d give him _something to work with, here._

Unless, you know. They _wanted_ Lance to get the wrong idea.

“See?” Lance raised his hands. “It’s foolproof.”

Hunk’s face was still a twisted mask of uncertainty, Allura’s own expression, not that much different in her blatant grimace as she sighed, “I don’t know, Lance,” and worried a glossed lip. “It still seems risky.”

“That’s because it _is.”_

But Lance needed to cover ground here and he needed to do it quick. Preferably _before_ Sendak got trigger happy and made Lance’s nightmares into a reality. He needed to use the sources he’d gotten, the advantages he’d gained, and go off of the reactions he’d obtained by those he’d met and seen at the station. “I mean, the man is fucking hated, you guys.” Lance laid out the words with a chop of his hand against the tabletop. Swept them away. “Just look at the people that work for him. The fucking _officer_ that he put in charge of me hated him, and he was—” Lance startled; mouth falling open, and the words he needs so desperately suddenly evade him. “He was—” Almost there. “On T.V?”

_There you go._

Allura cocked her head, “Um,” and sent a confused look Hunk’s way. “Do you mean like on ‘Cops’, or—”

“What?” Lance looked at Allura incredulously, could see they weren’t processing what it he was trying to say, and took to gesturing wildly towards the monitor hooked up on the far wall in a frenzy. “No, that’s— _That’s_ the guy,” Lance sputtered. “ _That’s_ Regris. What is he—“

A young looking guy’s picture slides into frame, obscuring Regris’s commentary with high school photo taken around the same time Hunk and Lance would have graduated, and he hears his best friend make a thoughtful sound low in his throat before he squints, “I think we found your twin, dude,” and moves a bit so Allura and him can see better.

And sure enough, the resemblance is there. The smile not quite as bright, but features closely similar in the face.

The blonde news anchor makes a motion with her hand, saying something along the lines of, “If you know the victim, please call 1-800...”, and Lance snaps his gaze down at where he sees his phone light up; the splintering of cracks cutting thin lines through the bold ‘Keith’.

Hesitation trickles in the reach of his fingers, having known full well just how long he’d been ignoring the influx of calls, but then Hunk was turning, Allura huffing her disturbances in stride, and Lance was tearing his gaze away from the accusatory stretch of Keith’s smile as he focused back in on the raging headlines rolling across the screen.

“I wonder what happened,” Hunk murmured sympathetically.

And Lance felt himself nod, a distant, “Yeah,” falling flat, before he sent a heavy look Keith’s way and worried a nick of guilt into the flesh of his lower lip.

“Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone~  
> I cannot even BEGIN to tell you guys how hard Sheith is for me to write! I absolutely love Shklance, hence, this entire fucking story, and I’ve written Klance before. And I’m currently writing a lot of Shance on my collab fic as of late, but Sheith has always been a ship I’ve struggled with. It’s stupid, but I made this sort of a challenge for myself, since I really wanted to explore the depths of Keith and Shiro’s relationship given that a lot of what we know is through the eyes of Lance, and very sparse throughout when not. I wanted to expose Keith’s vulnerability. A role reversal of sorts now that he’s the one sort of threatened by Shiro’s fancy of Lance, and I thought it’d be fun to do that with some smut since Keith is usually more reserved outside of such intimacy. I think it turned out a lot better than I thought it would? I almost didn’t use it. I played with three more versions more Lance centric, but something about this felt right and I wanted to fulfill a sort of goal. So hopefully it held up!  
> As for some of the shit going down in the background of this all, I think it’s safe to say Lance has officially become a target. It’s not said outright, but I know y’all are smart enough to pick up on what’s going on. Hehe.  
> I gots nothing else to say other than I’m happy as ever to be delivering this after such a long time (again), and I hope you all enjoyed!


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